Rilla My Rilla!
by ruby gillis
Summary: Sequel to Rilla of Ingleside. What's next for Rilla, Ken, and all the Blythes and Merediths? New verision of Chapter 24 uploaded! This is the correct version, please r&r again if you have already. It might clear up some confusion.
1. ReIntroducing Rilla

"I do love getting ready for a wedding," said Rilla Blythe, pensively, one late summer afternoon. It was the kind of purply-gold PEI evening, with the last remnants of the sun shining down on the red roads, picking up a fairy glint here and there, that made Rilla clasp her hands and thank God for letting her have been born in such a lovely place.

"A wedding," she said solemnly to Susan Baker, who had washed and soothed and rocked Rilla to sleep when she was the roly poly young baby of Ingleside, and could hardly believe that she was now a tall, slim, woman of nineteen, "Is like a lovely package, all wrapped up in string. It _hurts_ not to open it – you want to desperately – but oh, all the splendid things you can _imagine_ are inside. I _hate_," Rilla's tone was especially strong, "When a wedding is over. It's like Christmas day when all the packages have been unwrapped and the dinner eaten – and there's only cleaning up to, and a whole year to wait until the next one."

"I do not think," said Susan, stabbing a needle through her sewing, "That we will have to wait very long between weddings, Rilla, dear. Did not you just dance at Miss Oliver's – Mrs. _Grant_'_s_ – last month? And is not Mary Vance's tomorrow?"

Rilla gave a delighted and delightful little laugh that made her throw her head back in mirth. "Mary Vance – married! It seems so strange."

Susan nodded sagely. She knew what Rilla meant.

"Cornelia is none too pleased with Miller Douglas – even with him a war-hero – though I would think, Rilla dear, that she would be pleased to make a match of her at all, considering."

"Oh, Susan," Rilla's laughing eyes turned doleful. "You _mustn't_ say anything against Mary. I know I haven't always liked her so well myself – but she is quite capable, and has always been a good friend. I only meant it strange because Mary is a _chum_. Miss Oliver – Mrs. Grant – is so much older and so very much in love that it didn't seem at all odd to think of her getting married. But Mary – Mary is one of us. And tomorrow she will be someone's wife!"

Susan had never had too high an opinion of Mary Vance. She wisely said no more against her, but did not let the topic of weddings die all together. "Jem and Faith plan to make a match of it any time now, and Nan and Jerry will follow soon after. And," Susan's "and" was very arch, "_And_ I expect that I will be weeping at your own wedding very soon."

Rilla stood rather abruptly.

"I don't like crying at weddings," she said nonchalantly. "Even happy tears. There is no place for tears at a _wedding_. I don't approve of them."

Rilla laid down her own sewing – Susan noticed that the stitches in it were just as fine and even in her own. She looked up fondly at her 'baby,' but Rilla had already run lightly down the steps and toward Rainbow Valley.

Susan shook her head to herself, and carried on. One of the things she had learned in her old age was that it was still pleasant to say things, even if there was no one around to say them to. Once she would have thought it very odd, but she did not mind, now. Wasn't it an ever-changing world?

"Poor lamb. She's probably nervous – and not a whit jealous. There is no doubt that it would be a trial to see Mary Vance married off first, with Rilla being quality and no one knowing anything at all about that Mary. Still, Rilla has handled it rather well, and is not jealous a bit. There is the last napkin done for the wedding feast tomorrow, and Mrs. Dr, dear will soon be home from setting the flowers in the church. No, Rilla is not a jealous girl – but I don't wonder that she wants to brood."

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Susan was right – Rilla did go to Rainbow Valley to brood. And she was not jealous. She was feeling low, which was out of character for her. There had once been a time when Rilla felt that she would never be happy again, but those days were beginning to be past – though there was an occasional pang of grief when she looked at the picture of her black-haired brother on the piano. At times there was a sudden realization when she least expected it, and it was like Walter had died all over again.

But tonight she was hardly thinking of Walter – not more than usual, anyway. There was always the chance that Kenneth would come by after work and meet her by the gate and they would go on a tryst and say dear, sweet things to one another that no one else would hear. Rilla longed for those trysts. Each night she ran down to Rainbow Valley each night hoping to see him, her face awash with expectant delight. Each night she – hoped – that Kenneth would ask her a darling little question -- but he hadn't. Rilla sighed.

Of course he _had_ stayed at the House of Dreams this autumn, even when his family when back to Toronto, and he _had_ taken an apprenticeship at the _Glen Notes_ to be near her. Rilla did not doubt that Kenneth loved her. Didn't he say as much when they were walking, hand in hand, and he leaned his mouth to her ear and whispered it? But the fact remained that Ken Ford had not asked Rilla Blythe to be his wife.

"_And_ I am beginning to doubt he _will_," said Rilla darkly. "What could be taking him so long about it?"

It was hard to be around Nan, now, with her always flipping through bridal magazines and planning her trousseau. If Jerry got the church in Lowbridge next spring, as he was expected to, they would have a winter wedding. "Don't sulk, Rilla," had laughed Nan, confident as ever. "_I_ am the oldest sister, and _I_ get to go first! But your time will come, kidlet – it will!"

Rilla felt at that moment like it _wouldn't_.

And Faith looked so lovely ever since she had become 'formally' engaged to Jem. There was no question that they would do it anytime soon – Jem still had a year, at least, of medical school! But Faith went around with a light in her eyes and a serene, womanly air that Rilla craved. She wore her little pearl in a circlet of gold like a queen.

She had thought, Rilla had, when she was young and silly and sixteen, that she and Kenneth _were_ engaged – when he had asked her to save her lips for him until he got back from the war. Mother had thought so, too! And when Kenneth asked her that little, low question – 'Is it Rilla-_my_-Rilla?' – when he'd gotten home, she'd thought it was definite, then! But still there was no circlet of pearls of her own, and no plans. People all over town were asking Rilla when she would make a match of it! And she had nothing to tell them, because Kenneth hadn't spoken!

"I _don't_ like weddings!" Rilla cried suddenly to herself. "In fact, I hate them!"

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Kenneth, and Rilla jumped. He did have the habit of taking people by surprise – he was so long and lean and he walked almost silently, like an Indian. He also had a habit of looking at Rilla by new moonlight – he often looked at her for a long while, gloatingly, before joining her on one of their twilight trysts. He had been watching her long enough that nightto see her brow furrow and wonder why.

"I'm sorry to hear you don't like weddings," said Kenneth.

"Really? Why?"

"Because you've got to come with me to one tomorrow, goose! I'm standing up for Miller, you know, and I must have you there to dance with me. I don't dance half so well with anyone else – and I've the feeling that no one else would feel as light in my arms."

"Oh," said Rilla, shoulders drooping.

Kenneth supposed she was thinking of Walter – she often admitted to thinking of him when in Rainbow Valley. Ken couldn't really help but think of him, either. His very ghost seemed to haunt the place, in a friendly, loving way. The bells he had hung from the tops of the Tree Lovers carried high and eerie on the breeze. Kenneth hated to see Rilla's eyes grow worried and her lovely, dented lip droop like a wilted flower. He would try his best to cheer her up.

Rilla could not laugh at his jokes or stories about work. About the typesetter at the _Notes_ who had added bungled a headline to read, **LOCAL FAMILY SAILS HOUSE. **"Sails it _where_?" Norman Douglas had boomed. Or the very old woman who had come in to ask them to write an obituary for her pet cat! During the lunch-hour, Rita Crawford, whose father owned the paper, had tried to show Ken some new dance steps for Mary's wedding party and Ken had bungled them terribly. In face, he had upset a whole tray of type and they had spent the rest of the afternoon sorting the letters back into their slots.

Rilla smiled at that, almost despite herself. The idea of Ken, so full of quiet grace and so capable, bungling anything!

"I don't know what I'll do after this year," said Ken. "My apprenticeship is over in July – perhaps I can get them to take me on another. But when it's over – when it's over, Rilla…"

"Yes?" said Rilla hopefully.

"When it's over – well, I'll have to find another place to take me on – at a salaried position, no less."

Rilla let out a bated breath.

Ken talked on, and Rilla studied his face by the light of the rising moon. _How_ she loved him! _How_ handsome he was! She had long ago memorized the curve of his jaw, and was tracing it now, as he spoke, and then reacquainted herself with the way his eyelashes curled. Such, dear, curly little eyelashes! Wouldn't he ever ask her?

She was so intent that she did not notice Kenneth had stopped talking, and was looking at her.

"Rilla," he said, in a low voice. "There is something I want to ask you. Something _important_."

Rilla breathed.

"Rilla, will you – _will_ you – "

"Yes, oh yes?" Rilla was almost wriggling with joy. He would ask her! He was about to! And oh, it was the perfect night, with the wind murmuring in the tree tops and the fairy bells like elfin music on high – !

"_Will_ you tie my bowtie for me tomorrow?" asked Ken with a rueful smile. "I always bungle it – and I won't let Persis know I can't manage it. I'm the best man, you know – I've got to look my best."

"I will," said Rilla, dully.

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A/N: I know I'm not done with The Harbour Light, but I've hit a wall on that one and couldn't resist starting this one while I wait for inspiration on the other. Please review! I want to thank adriennelane, too, for her encouragement.


	2. Mary's Wedding

The morning of Mary Vance's wedding dawned breezy and cool.

"I hope it won't _rain_!" cried Rilla, as she gathered her dress in her arms and made her way to Four Winds.

"If God lets it rain on my wedding day, I won't go to church any more," was Mary's rejoinder.

"Mary!" Miss Cornelia cried in consternation. "You are far too old to be saying such things! Of course you'll always go to church like a good girl."

"If God keeps it from raining, I will." Mary was laconic.

Miss Cornelia's prim, neat house was in an uproar that morning. Rilla had already changed into her yellow bridesmaid's dress, and Nan, in hers, was surreptitiously putting on just a _touch_ of make-up, all the while trying not to let Mrs. Blythe, who was arranging Mary's hair, and looking very youthful herself in a blue voile, see what she was doing. Una, maid of honor, was running to and fro in a flurry of activity, and Faith was already at the church, tying matching yellow bows onto the pews. Yellow was Mary's favorite color, and so everything that day was a veritable homage to it. Marshall Elliott had spared no expense for "his girl."

"What a shame that Di couldn't be here to see how lovely you look," said Mrs. Blythe with a smile. "But she could not get away from the musical college, and she has sent you a cluster of columbines to slip in your bouquet. They will be your 'something blue.' There – I've tilted the glass – take a look at yourself, Mary. What a beautiful bride!"

Rilla had to admit that it was a shock to see how well Mary looked. She felt the others were aware of it as well. Was _this_ their Mary, who looked so at home in her print dresses and ginghams? This shining thing, in silk, with skin like white marble, and eyes that glowed with an unearthly luster? They had never known that Mary, with her cap of black hair and her cloud of veil, could look so delicate and ethereal. She had always seemed to be made of 'too, too solid flesh' – today, however, she was a sunbeam.

"Laws," said Mary, surveying the girl before her in the looking-glass with some awe. "I wish my ma and pa could see me now – and all the people that cast me aside before you took me, Cornelia. Wouldn't they – be surprised – to see how fine I've become?"

"You look very beautiful, Mary," said Rilla, with a lump in her own throat.

"Do you remember the day you found me in your hay-loft?" said Mary with some emotion to Una. "You – all – have always been such good friends to me." She sounded much more tender than anyone could have ever imagined Mary Vance to sound.

They stared at her aghast. Could _Mary_ be about to cry?

"Don't you _dare_ bawl and ruin your face!" Nan hissed. Some of her contraband make-up had been covertly applied there as well.

"I ain't going to bawl," choked Mary. "Give me a hanky, Una – come on, girls, we must get to the church. I told Miller I'd lambaste him if he was late – and I'm no hypocrite, so I won't be late myself."

They piled into Marshall Elliott's car and drove to the church. All the while Mary seemed to be blinking more than usual – anyone who didn't know her would have thought she was trying not to cry. But Mary never cried – not even when she saw the beautiful, golden-decorated church, or when she took her 'father's' arm and let him lead her down the aisle. Though she did swallow hard around the lump in her throat and her eyes did water. She did not cry when her bridesmaids gathered around her, or when the organist struck up the strains of the wedding march.

But when Miller Douglas, his face alight with a glow of love and hope – Miller, who had lost a leg in the war – walked on his own down the aisle, supported on one side by Kenneth Ford, Mary did cry. She laid her snapping black head on the shoulder of her groom and wept tears of happiness through her vows. And Rilla, who generally disdained tears at weddings, found she did not mind. In fact, she found her own eyes were rather moist.

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It did not rain – and the wedding party in the church hall was just as jolly and fun as Mary could have wanted it to be. She didn't dance, of course – Miller had managed the walk down the aisle but couldn't manage _that_ – but she was content to sit by his side as his wife and let others do the dancing for her.

"So dance you must!" she commanded, and they were so awestruck by this new, queenly Mary that they dared not disobey.

Rilla took her place in Ken's arms and smiled dreamily. She was miles away. Oh she loved weddings – she did! She hoped her own wedding would be as nice as this one – whenever it happened – though Nan had said there were not nearly enough flowers and there would be heaps more at her own, Rilla thought it was perfect.

"What are you thinking of?" asked Ken with a grin. He looked so handsome in his tuxedo that Rilla could not help but smile. His bowtie had been tied at an odd angle – she had forgotten to help him with it, and he must have tied it himself rather than to ask Persis.

"It's so – nice – to have a party," said Rilla. "After all those years of worry – and pain – now the only thing we have to worry about it getting the steps rights – or spilling punch on our fine clothes. If Shirley was here – and Di – we would all be together again and –it could be _almost_ like it was before. Almost."

Miss Cornelia had baked a cake that _was_ a cake – a lovely, plummy, fruit-peely concoction that even Susan, looking so formal in her outmoded 'dress up' dress, could not deny. Rilla danced until her golden slippers were worn through. She laughed at Kenneth's toast and cried, despite herself, at Miller's. Mary tossed her bouquet and there was a short tussle between Faith, Nan, and Irene Howard that the photographer captured with a snap of his camera. Nan came out the winner, triumphant, and Jerry had kissed her – right in front of everyone. Miss Cornelia danced with Marshall Elliott – Rev. Meredith with Rosemary – and even Dr. Blythe asked Susan to take a twirl around the floor. And she obliged! Everyone was feeling the same relief and giddy joy after the long years of war. They dared not be too cautious with it.

Mary changed into her 'going away' suit – a buttery green cashmere with a peaked yellow hat. They threw rice as she helped Miller into the car – and then as Miller kissed her. They clapped and called to the couple as they drove away. Then Kenneth took Rilla's hand, as the other couples began to disperse into the twilight.

"Let's slip away," he smiled. "With Queen Mary finally gone we might risk it!"

They saw others forms, in pairs, heading toward Rainbow Valley – Nan and Jerry, talking animatedly, Nan still holding her faded bouquet. Jerry and Faith were far ahead, hand in hand. Una was walking by herself, a bit behind Persis and Carl. Rilla shivered, and was afraid to look behind her. What else – who else – would she see following, in that ghostly procession?

But then she laughed, for Kenneth had grabbed her hand. "I won't let them beat us to it," he said. "Let's run!" Rilla let him hold her and they _flew_ down the lane past the others.

Rainbow Valley was quiet and cool. There was the sound of the brook from somewhere. Rilla slipped off her stockings and dabbled her feet in it.

"All in all," said Ken, joining her. "I think Mary and Miller's wedding went off very nicely."

"It was a dream – a golden-cloud of a dream."

"But," Ken mused, "I think ours will be even be even nicer."

Rilla sat up very straight. She let go of her dress, which she had been holding out of the way of the rushing water, and the hem of it was soaked.

"Our wedding!" she cried. "Oh, Kenneth – _our_ wedding?"

"Of course our wedding," laughed Ken.

"But I didn't think – I mean – I didn't know if _you_…"

"If I wanted to marry you?" Ken looked surprised. "If we would get married? Of course we will – and haven't I asked you time after time? When I asked you to—"

"To not kiss anyone else…"

"And then when I came back and asked if you _were_ Rilla _my_ Rilla and you said—"

"Oh…" Rilla flushed red with embarrassment.

"You said 'Yeth,' with that _charming _little lisp that is one of the things I love best about you."

"I must be terribly stupid," said Rilla, covering her face. "I didn't realize – I mean – I didn't have a _ring_ – not that I need one, Ken, when I've got you! But I didn't know – I've never done this before – "

"I took mother's ring to the jeweler's in Toronto almost as soon as I got home," said Kenneth. "A ruby – I'm having it reset for you. Rubies are for virtuous women, you know – dear, dimpled, charming, lisping, wonderful _virtuous_ women like Rilla-_mine_."

"They're about to spoon," said Jem, to Faith. "I knew we should have gone to down to the light. Hallo, Rilla, Ken! None of that business."

"I'm getting married!" cried Rilla joyfully, springing up, her wet dress swirling around her legs. "Oh, Jerry and Nan, too – listen to my news! I'm going to be Kenneth Ford's wife!"

They looked at her fondly.

"Of course you are," laughed Nan. "Hasn't Susan been looking at recipes for the big event for weeks now? She's already written to get Aunt Diana's recipe for jelly-rolls – and Mother and Father have a bet on when it will be. Father says nearer to Christmas, but Mother thinks it will be in the spring. Only," Nan drew herself up proudly, "You'd better not make it March. That's when _my_ wedding will be."

It must be official, then! Jerry had gotten the Lowbridge church! But Rilla was too busy being shocked to put those pieces of information together then.

"Oh," Rilla gasped. "Oh – everyone knew it – _except _for me?"

"I only suspected, dear," said Una.

"We knew," said Jem. "Here's to my sister – my _sisters_ – and the men that make them happy – and you, Una – and Carl, and Persis – and my own Faith! Here's to this Rainbow Valley – here's to us all!"

"And I was the last to know," Rilla sighed – contentedly.


	3. Cup of Sorrow, Cup of Joy

'Father has won his bet,' wrote Rilla in her diary one afternoon in early fall. 'My wedding to Ken – my _wedding! _To _Ken!_ – will take place one week before Christmas, so that we can spend the holiday in the House of Dreams – _our_ House of Dreams! 'Aunt' Leslie and 'Uncle' Owen have said we might stay there as long as Ken is with the _Notes_. And they are beside themselves over the wedding, too. I'm ashamed to admit it – but I _can_ in this journal – that for a short moment I was afraid Ken's mother mightn't approve. She is so sophisticated and graceful and I am just a provincial, silly thing! But she wrote me a lovely long letter about how she had often feared what kind of match Ken would make, during his school days, and she was glad she needn't fear any longer!

'Susan is racing around like a madwoman even the wedding – _my _wedding! – is weeks and weeks away. And Father won't let anyone forget that he was right!

"I thought you _would_ want to be a spring bride," laughed Mother, looking at me quizzically.

'I've always thought so, too – I'd love a bloomy, outdoor, showy fete with birds and flowers and rainbows. But none of that seems really important anymore. I want to be Kenneth's wife as soon as I can. It seems I can't wait to start our life together – we were separated for so long that at times I am afraid I will wake up from a lovely dream and find him still gone. I want to be his wife right away, so that I can devote the rest of my life to loving him.

'Cousin Sophia, were she around to hear it, would most definitely call me shameless, but it doesn't feel shameless, it feels _right_.

'I told this to Mother and she grew very misty-eyed.

"God bless you, and Ken, my dear Rilla," she said. "And I know he will bless your life together."

'This was very plainspoken for Mother, who can be overly-flowery in her felicitations at times. But somehow, it made me want to lay my head on her shoulder and weep more than any poems or love-songs could.

'Nan is spitting nails that I will be first – not really, of course. But I know it rankles. I had a nice, chummy, half-hour of a chat with her about it in Rainbow Valley, to "apologize." I told her just how I felt about Ken, just what I said to Mother, and she laughed and cried and told me she knew how I felt. She has never forgotten – and never will – when Jerry was shot and we were not sure he would live. But mostly she is deliriously happy – as am I.

'I am a bit worried about Di, though. She doesn't phone or write us very often at all anymore, and Persis, who sees her regularly in Kingsport, says she is very faded and tired and thin. Motherphoned to see if she was ill, but she's not – just a bit down. I think I know why. The last time she was home she sat for a long while in Rainbow Valley with a sheaf of Walter's poems in her lap. I always forget that he and Di were so close – she was his Dorothy Wordsworth. How jealous I used to be over that! I think often about how hard is for me to have lost him – and then I feel awfully for forgetting that it must be so much worse for Di. I was Walter's sister and his friend, yes. But Di was his confidant as much as I was, and had been for ever so many years before I was.

'We phoned her last week to tell her our news, Nan and I. When I came on, Di said, very bitterly,

'It will be a comfort to Mother and Father to have only one spinster for a daughter.' Then she laughed, very bitterly.

It was so unlike Di that I did not know what to say. It was not the congratulations I expected, and I felt myself getting very cold and firm around the mouth. Then my heart melted, for Di had given a sound that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

'Rilla – little Rilla – I'm happy for you – so happy I'm about to burst, really, you dear thing! Can you be old enough to get married? Weren't you our baby just yesterday – with bronzy curls and sweet, fat little legs? I'm happy for you – I'm just not fit for human consumption at the present moment.'

'What is the matter, Di?' I asked, very gently.

'Nothing – everything,' she said, and rang off.

Mother is worried and is going to visit her for the week-end. And surely Di will come home when Shirley comes home, at the end of the month? I know she will want to see him, and he, her.

'Speaking of Shirley, Susan is beside herself that he will be here so soon. Dad gave her a calendar and she is marking the days off with big black x'es. 'Only twenty to go," she tells us every morning, when we gather for breakfast. 'Only nineteen, until he is here.' Susan is in a bit of a predicament. She loves us all and we know that, but Shirley has always been her especial favorite, so she wants to have a special dinner of all his favorite things when he arrives. However, she feels this would be unfair to Jem, since he came unexpectedly on a night that Susan had arranged a 'pick-up' supper!

'A wedding and a homecoming,' Susan says, all the time, pretending to be put out. But she will manage beautifully. She always does.

Ken and I have taken to wandering in the garden of the little House of Dreams o'nights. Rainbow Valley is getting to be fairly cluttered with couples come to do their sweethearting. Jerry and Nan – Jem and Faith – and, for a new development, Persis and Carl! But we're none of us supposed to notice, since they don't exactly sweetheart. Persis ostensibly is only there to take pictures of things, and Carl is only there to look at Persis, which he does gloatingly, as if she were a treasure. With all those couples and all that 'canoodling,' as Norman Douglas would say, it is a very crowded place! So to the House of Dreams we go. I said to Mother the other night,

'The garden of the House of Dreams seems _filled_ with ghosts – good ghosts – of happy memories and days gone by.'

'Oh, it is,' said Mother. 'There is no 'seem' about it!'

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Rilla tied a filmy scarf around her shoulders and, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror, was not displeased with what she saw. A tall girl, with ruddy, wavy hair tied up in a loose knot at the back of her neck – how she had once longed for the day when she could wear her hair up! And now she never noticed it! Her eyes were large and hazel – her lashes long enough – her top lip dented as if someone had kissed her there and it had stuck. Ken had said that once, that if she had not had a little dented lip to begin with, he would have kissed her there and made one. Her skin was milky white, but there _were_ a few golden-dropped freckles here and there – luckily the light in the hall was dim so Rilla did not see them. Cousin Sophia, all doom and gloom, had once told Rilla that she was 'tolerably pretty.' It did not do, Cousin Sophia thought, to build the young folks up too much. Rilla had smarted over that, once, but she laughed at it now. If Kenneth loved her, she must be more than 'tolerably' pretty. She ran out the door and down to the little house on the edge of Four Winds.

She arrived before Ken. Sometimes it was so hard for him to get away. Rilla ran through the garden and bid all the last of the fall flowers – the starry mums and sleepy roses – good night. Then she climbed the steps to the verandah and spent a nice quarter-hour lost in dreams. She was so lost in those dreams – dreams of all the splendid things – and sorrowful things – that would happen to her, here, in this house, through the years. Rilla was old enough now that she knew with each cup of joy there comes a cup of sorrow. She did not even try to imagine it away – she welcomed it – she could face anything as Kenneth's wife, with him by her side. She was so lost to herself that she did not notice when Ken appeared.

"Where are you wandering, Rilla-my-Rilla?" he asked, sitting next to her and taking her hand.

"Oh—Kenneth—I was imagining things – all sorts of things – splendid things!" Rilla turned his face to hers. "But now you are here – and I won't have to _imagine_ them."


	4. A War Baby and No Soup Tureen

Even with all the planning, and all that was going on, Rilla found the time to have Jims – her dear, war-baby Jims – spend a week at Ingleside. The folks of that house, who had seen him daily for the first few years of his life, missed him dreadfully, especially Susan. Though she would not admit it.

"I shall make a batch of monkey-faces," she said, referring to her own recipe of cooky that all the Ingleside small fry, including Jims, had delighted in.

"For no particular reason," said the doctor, who had already been into town to acquire a small fishing-pole, just about the right size for a boy of four. He thought he might steal away from work for an afternoon to and go down to the brook in Rainbow Valley.

"I seem to remember that Little Kitchener has a liking for them," Susan sniffed, trying to remain casual. But she was nearly trembling with excitement at the thought of seeing Jims. All of them were.

Rilla drove over on a blustery afternoon to get him. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, she had thought, would balk at letting their boy spend a whole week with her – but they had agreed readily. Mrs. Anderson was expecting a new arrival to the family, Rilla had been told, and as Jims was rather over-rambunctious for a boy of four, she could use the rest.

The Andersons served her a nice lunch, though it was none-too-lavish, since they were not overly-rich people. The new Mrs. Anderson could set a lovely table, though. There were glasses of mums at each plate, and when she ladled soup proudly out of an old soup tureen that was apparently a family heirloom, Rilla's eyes smarted with repressed laughter. She ate hardly anything – though the food was good, Mrs. Anderson was a good cook – she was too busy eating up her war-baby with her eyes.

He had grown – his hair was no longer the downy baby-fluff that he had had – it was darker, and cut rather unevenly around his darling little face. Rilla did not think it an oversight on Mrs. Anderson's part – Jims wriggled, and that was a fact. He chattered a great deal, and wore a little, round pair of spectacles – Rilla remembered from one of the letters that there had been some problem with his eyes – that gave him the look of a very small, very dear old man.

"I shall take very good care of him," she promised Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. "And—" mirthful glance at the soup tureen – "Thank you for the lovely meal!"

Rilla loaded Jims into the car and reflected how different was this drive from her first to Ingleside with Jims. She had been behind Abner Crawford's old nag, with a wrinkly red baby in a soup tureen on her lap! And how she had worried that she might drop him! Only – that drive might have been a bit more relaxing, actually. When you had a boy of four in the seat beside you, who was determined to see how the windows rolled up, and forever getting his fingers caught in them – well, it was enough to make you long for the old days!

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It was a charmed week. Ingleside loved Jims – not just the people in it, but the very house. His laughter filled every nook and cranny of it. Dr. Blythe, as it turned out, did find the time to take him fishing, and Susan made not only the first batch of monkey-face cookies but many to follow. Mrs. Blythe let Jims bang away on the piano and read him stories from _The Jungle Book_ that kept him up at night – not because he was afraid! Little Jims was feared nothing – because he wanted to talk about the 'lions and tigers.'

"Willa, _why_ didn't Shere Khan _eat_ Mowgli?"

"Because he didn't want to, Jims."

"But isn't that what tigers do? They've such aw'fly big teeth!"

"Shere Khan was a special tiger, dear. Now, go to sleep."

"But Willa, what about Ballou? Was he a special _bear_?"

Rilla herself had nothing special planned to do with Jims. It was enough to do the ordinary, dear, everyday things – to wake early and watch him sleeping in his little cot. To make his breakfast, and wash behind his darling little ears – to do all the things Rilla had once thought of as a chore, but now a luxury. Jims had always been stingy with kisses – he was not a kissable child, and nothing had changed since Rilla had seen him last. However, sometimes, when he was sleeping soundly, his little spectacles folded on the table next to his bed, Rilla would creep in and drop a little kiss on his forehead.

On the last day of his visit, Rilla took Jims by the hand and together they walked down to the little graveyard of the Baptist church over-harbour, where Jims's mother was buried. No one had thought to do it ever before. James Anderson was not fond of talking about the wife he barely had time to know. Rilla supposed he felt that he had failed her in some way, to let her life end – and his son's begin – so inauspiciously.

Jims looked very solemn, and he had a small bouquet of mums in his sweaty little hands. Together, he and Rilla laid them on the little grave, and then Rilla sat with him and told him everything she knew that was pleasant and good about his mother.

They met Una Meredith on the road back. Rilla was struck – as she always was, when she saw Una – how lovely she looked, and how melancholy. They fell into step together, companionably, and headed for Rainbow Valley. Jims would want to run around a bit before lunch.

"I was just going for a walk," said Una, a trifle defiantly. Things had never really been the same between the girls since Walter had died. Rilla knew that Una had loved Walter – and Una knew that she knew it. It made her feel hollow inside to see Rilla look at her with pity in her lovely eyes. She had kept her love a secret for the very fact that she did not want pity. "Little Bruce wrote me a letter today – he is happy at Queens – but I am so miserable without him. I feel as though I've no one to work for – to _live_ for."

Still, at times, Una looked at Rilla with such gratefulness that Rilla could hardly bear it.

"It's a nice evening for a walk," Rilla said calmly – and a little moodily herself. "I usually like the sunsets – and the promise of a new day – but I don't tonight, since Jims is going home tomorrow. I can't bear to let him go. Stay away from the brook, Jims! Watch or you'll fall in, and then what will Susan say?"

Jims, chagrined at the thought of what Susan _would_ say, shook his sandy curls and headed for dry land.

"He is so _sweet_," Una said suddenly. There was a fierce light in her eyes that even her pride could not quench. A sort of longing, Rilla thought.

"I feel – as though – you have become so very sad, Una."

"I'm not," said Una, apologetically. "Just a bit low. I woke this morning and realized that I am twenty-three years old – it seems like a shock – my mother had already had Jerry and Faith and me by the time she was twenty-three. And I have – I have – "

"There is plenty of time for you, Una," said Rilla, feeling stung by the depth of the girl's passion.

Una smiled ruefully.

"We both know that isn't true," she said, dropping a kiss on Rilla's cheek and squeezing her hand. "Goodnight, dear."

Rilla could not let her go while she still had that terribly desperate look on her face. "Shirley will be home soon," she called after Una, searching for something to say. "Only nine more days, by Susan's calendar!"

Una turned – smiled. A genuine smile, this time. Then continued on her way back to the manse.

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	5. Homecoming

Rilla had a white night on All Hallow's Eve – they had had a little party at the manse, since Faith and Jem were home from Redmond for the evening. Rilla had stayed out late, and her walk back to Ingleside at the witching hour was not pleasant. She felt as though spirits were swirling around her in the air – though that could have been from the punch Una had concocted – perhaps she had put a bit too much blueberry wine in it. She woke several times throughout the night and could not get back to sleep. Finally, as the sun was peeking over the horizon, she swung her feet out of bed and stretched. She was up for the day.

It was a lovely, quiet gray morning, peaceful and still. Rilla dressed and tripped downstairs. She might as well make the best of it. Since she was up before Susan, she could make breakfast for everyone – she would make an omelette. Susan did not approve of omelettes – she thought them new-fangled. What – who – was that on the front porch? Rilla's hand flew to her throat – her mouth formed a little surprised O of delight –she ran to the door and flung it open!

"Shirley! Shirley!"

All at once he was awake and Rilla found herself laughing and crying at once. She had never done that before in her life since she had heard the news that the war was over. She hugged Shirley, and kissed his face, and could not stop her laughter or her tears.

"You're home – at last – but it's still four days by Susan's calendar – she'll never forgive you coming earlier and not telling her – oh Shirley – Mother, Susan! Dad!"

How was it that Mother seemed always to know when something happened? She flew down the stairs like a girl. Still in her nightdress! Her eyes were lodestars of morning. "Shirley!" Father and Susan were close behind, with Nan on their heels.

The tall, tanned boy with the still-sleepy eyes found himself being hugged and kissed and petted and caressed by them all.

Finally Dad spoke. "Let the boy come inside, you greedy women." But the doctor's eyes were warm and he had to keep his lips pressed into a thin line –to keep _something_ from showing on his face.

Susan would not allow anyone to eat Rilla's omelette. This was an _occasion_. She beat eggs and flipped pancakes and fried bacon. She was in a frenzy of cooking. They had never _seen_ Susan move so fast! The others were afraid to take their eyes off of Shirley in case they had dreamed him. While Susan cooked, they asked him question after question.

"How did you get back?"

A train, of course. The 11:01 last night.

"Did you sleep _all night_ on the porch?"

No – he'd spent most of it in Rainbow Valley, until it had gotten damp with dew.

"Why didn't you knock!"

He hadn't wanted to disturb anyone.

"What are you doing home so early?"

Early! Shirley laughed. It was hardly early – his troop had been delayed so many times. He had been supposed to come back in July.

"Are you well?"

That was Mother's question, asked in a calm and concerned voice. A shadow crossed Shirley's face for a moment. Mother saw it, but said nothing.

"Yes," Shirley said. "I'm fine."

"You will feel even finer when you have eaten," said Susan staunchly. She set in front of Shirley a plate heaped with food as one would set a tray of jewels before a king. Shirley gave her a grateful smile, and then – then there was a gasping, heart-wrenching sound.

Susan – Susan was crying.

They had never seen Susan cry before, not like _this_. Not even when Walter had died, not even many years ago when Joyce had been lost. Susan had always seemed so solid and collected – but she was crying now. She gave great, gasping sobs, and used the hem of the apron to wipe her face. That was what perturbed them the most. Susan had never done _that_.

Shirley pushed back his chair and stood – had he grown taller? He seemed to understand. He enfolded Susan in his arms, and Susan – they had been expecting her to dry her tears any minute. Crying was one thing – Susan _might _cry a bit – but she showed no signs of stopping.

"There, there," said Shirley tenderly. "Don't cry, Mother Susan."

But that only made Susan weep harder.

Finally she snapped out of it. She gave her eyes one last dab with the apron, and mid-dab, it was as if she realized what she was doing. She stopped and stared them in horror. Then Susan collected herself.

"You blessed boy," she said. "I have never let myself go on like that in my life. You," to the doctor, "Should have slapped me. I was in hysterics, or as close to them as a Baker may get. We are all unemotional folk, but there is a chink in every suit of armour, or so I am told. Well, I am going to put this apron in the wash, and then I am going to sit down and watch this blessed brown boy eat every bite of his breakfast. For I do not know what the air corps has been feeding you, but you are skin and bones. I do not mean to talk against the leaders of this country, but if they had been feeding you a bit better – well, perhaps it would not be 1919 before you were home."

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"I can't tell you how good it is to be back in Rainbow Valley," said Shirley at twilight, after the hectic day, when he and Rilla were ambling side by side in that dear place that held so many of their memories. "There were so many nights – overseas – when I could see it so clearly – it was almost as if I _were_ here."

That was quite a pronouncement for the rather taciturn Shirley. Rilla smiled at him to go on.

"And now that I am here – Rilla, doesn't it seem as if Rainbow Valley has changed?"

"No," said Rilla, truthfully. "This place is always the same to me – it is constant in an ever-changing world. Sometimes, Shirley, when it got very bad – I could come here – and forget about things for a little while."

Shirley shook his head sadly.

"Something is gone from it – some of the magic."

Something twisted in Rilla's heart. Her boy-brother, the ever-youthful Shirley, sounded _old_. And he looked older. There were fine lines around his eyes that were there even when he was not smiling.

"It will get better," Rilla soothed, patting his shoulder. Once it had been Shirley soothing her, when they were children – now it was the other way round. "You are feeling out-of-sorts because you don't know any of what's been going on! Let's sit here by the brook, Shirley, and I'll tell you everything – letters aren't half as good for giving news as chatting – and you can forget your troubles for a while."

She told him everything – about Jerry and Nan and Jem and Faith – her worries for Di – Susan's new vendetta against the Methodist minister – "He called her _Mrs._ Baker, Shirley, he's an absent minded old thing, but Susan thought he was poking fun!" Shirley already knew of her engagement – Ken had written to ask him to be the best man. Well, Shirley hadn't heard about the visiting mission-doctor who had come to speak at Rev. Meredith's church – Jem was still going on about it, two weeks later! Rilla told him about Jims and was about to tell him about Father's latest "delivery," triplets, to Mrs. Bell over-harbour, but they were interrupted by a slender form in blue silk ambling toward them through the trees. It was Una Meredith.

"I wanted to tell you how glad I am you are here," she said simply, to Shirley, clasping his hand.

"It's good to be home," said Shirley, his eyes bright.

Rilla wisely stood and made her excuses to them, and ran back to the house. They didn't really seem to notice her going. Well, they had always been chums, Shirley and Una – the two silent ones in each boisterous clan. Hadn't they? Rilla had her doubts. For something in Shirley's face had told her more – when he saw Una coming through the trees, he had smiled for the first time since he had come home.

"I wonder – oh, I wonder…" said Rilla, clasping her knees and looking out at the rising moon.


	6. There Will Be Another Going

13 November 1919

'We have had a homecoming, with Shirley – but a going, too. Nan has gone to Kingsport to be near Di – she was very ill with a cold last week and hasn't been picking up as we had hoped she would. Father feared it was the 'flu – there have been several dreadful cases of it this fall, but nothing like the outbreak in the States and abroad. He tried to get Di to take a leave of absence from the college, but Di insists that she must stay. So Nan is going to her – she and Di have always been able to comfort each other in the past – but that was _before_. Everything in life is separated now to _after_ and _before_.

'It is so good to have Shirley around the place. I don't think Mother and I could stand for it to be as empty as it was during those long war-years. Jem and Faith are often home on the week-ends, and luckily Una has decided to postpone going to do her Household Training course at Redmond until the spring. She and Shirley take long walks almost every afternoon, now. I _think_ there may be something developing – or I would, if I did not know how Una feels – _felt_ – about Walter. I long to talk about it with someone, but when I broached the topic with Nan, before she went, she laughed.

'Shirley's going to be the one bach out of all of us,' she said. 'There's at least one in every family, you know.'

'I _hope_ she will not speak that way around Di. When I pleaded with her not to, Nan looked very offended.

'I _think_ I know my twin a little better than that, Marilla," said Nan witheringly. And oh – Nan can be withering like no one else.' I might have pressed on, but after the 'Marilla' it was really too much to bear.

20 November 1919

'Susan and I have been planning wedding menus all the forenoon. We talked about so many delicious things that our tummies were grumbling and growling. Although it wasn't easy to convince Susan to have what she calls 'new-fangled' eats. I had to have Una Meredith up with me for support or else Susan would have badgered me into having the same tired old roast and cream soups that everyone 'round here has at their weddings, and always will, world without end. It was a lesson in compromise – we will have a roast, but with a pumpkin and nutmeg soup and a walnut and apple salad. Susan almost fainted when I told her we wanted no pies – a wedding without pies, in Susan's opinion, is barely legal. But Una has shown me a picture in a magazine of a delightful little confection known as _petits-fours_ – little, individual iced bon-bons. Una assures me that they will be the height of elegance.

'Kenneth came up to Rainbow Valley after work and I flew to meet him. The moment I was in his arms, I couldn't believe that I'd worried my day away over something as silly as a _menu_! I will be Kenneth Ford's wife, and that is all that matters, wedding feast be 'darned.' And as long as _that_ happens, I don't care if people want to eat their _hats_!

1 December 1919

'Both of the 'famous' Ingleside twins are home!

'I don't know how Mother did it, but she was on the phone with Diana all last week, and managed to convince her to come. Di wanted to stay and work through the holidays. _Imagine_! I think the rest will do her good. She is very thin and pale and has a wracking cough left over from her cold. She wanders around the place like a stranger, picking up things and looking at them as if she'd never seen them in her life. Occasionally she gives a sort of bark of laughter, and then looks startled by it. But last night she ate every bit of Susan's 'Welcome Home' supper, and this morning she smiled when I showed her her bridesmaid's dress, a lovely, silvery thing like sea foam. I picked it out with _her_ in mind – the color won't half suit Nan, though Nan really looks lovely in anything – but this color will especially favor Diana, and she does so love to have fine clothes. I would do _anything_ to have back the laughing, jolly sister that she once was.

Ken and I spent the evening setting things up at the House of Dreams. Of course it is already furnished – but Mother has given me several 'treasures' to start my life as Mrs. Ford with. We laid Aunt Marilla's old willowware china in the china cabinet, and spread one of Mrs. Rachel Lynde's surviving cotton-warp quilts on the spare room bed. Mother also gave me a lovely amethyst brooch to wear with my wedding dress – it was Aunt Marilla's, too. _And_ she tried to give me Gog and Magog, but I would not take them!

'They belong _here_,' I told Mother. 'I couldn't imagine them anywhere _but_ the Ingleside hearth.'

Only two more weeks – !

10 December 1919

'There will be another going.

'My throat is choked up as I write this, but whether it is from sadness, or pride, or a mixture of both I don't know. Jem rang up last night to say that he and Faith would be coming home for the night – and that they had some 'special' news for us! So they're engaged – what else could it be? We were all very ho-hum about it – at least I was. We've weddings coming out of the woodwork around here, and of course we always knew that they _would_ get married, when Jem was done with medical school. I felt the way everyone else must have felt when I announced to them that I would be Kenneth's wife. Mother wanted to make a party out of it, though, so we invited all the Merediths up for supper.

'It's not everyday my boy-baby of the House of Dreams takes a wife," said Mother. Oh, if only she _knew_!

'Jem and Faith arrived, very mysterious and Sphinx-like, and we all sat on pins and needles throughout dinner, wondering when they would announce it. But they didn't say a word, not through the soup course, or the salad, or over Susan's roast. Susan, I think, was quite offended. She believes that any good news _should_ be said over her roast. It is only fair, since Susan's roasts _are_ roasts. It was during Una's pumpkin pie, however, that he cleared his throat and stood.

'Faith and I are about to embark on a great journey together,' Jem said, and we all clasped our hands and sighed with delight, even though we knew it was coming. But Jem did not mean it figuratively – he meant it literally. Faith and Jem have signed on with Dr. White's mission – Dr. White is the missionary doctor who came and spoke at the church all those weeks ago. They will be leaving for Hawaii – Hawaii! – in the start of the new year.

Mother grew very pale – Father looked angry, as if he would shout, if there were ever any shouting at Ingleside. Rosemary clasped Mother's hand, and Rev. Meredith looked dreamy and sad – but a little bit proud, I think. Susan merely got up and cleared the plates, which is what she does in times of distress.

Father was full of arguments, but Jem parried them nicely.

'You are only a student yet, Jem. And you still have a year of training – a year of training that you _need_.'

'I've talked to the university, Dad, and they'll let me have the training at the mission-hospital.'

'Treating foreign, tropical diseases for a few years won't help you if you ever decide to set up a practice on the Island.'

'There are plenty of everyday diseases there, too,' said Jem.

'You are too young – you lack experience…'

'I'm old enough, and I will gain experience – and do some good,' was Jem's composed reply.

Finally Faith spoke.

'I know this must seem rather sudden,' she began, looking like a dusky rose in the candlelight. 'You have only had a few minutes to get used to the idea – but Jem and I have felt this way our whole lives – we didn't realize it, for a long while, ourselves. It was the war that showed us – we saw so much suffering – made us realize that we long to help those in need. There are plenty of doctors on this Island – but on those islands, people die everyday from diseases that we can cure here, with a bottle of pills and some careful treatment. All because no one will go to them. Don't you see, we _must_ go. It is a new world, and if those of us who made it here will not try to do some good, what hope have we of making this world one worth fighting for?'

It was so like Walter's dear last letter that I felt a chill – felt like he was there in the room with us. Una's blue eyes above the flickering lights of the candles, showed me that she was thinking it, too.

It was Mother who finally spoke.

'Then go you must,' she said. 'We see that now. Oh, but Jem – my baby – I have only just gotten you back, it seems.'

'I won't be gone forever, Mother,' said Jem, clasping Father's hand in his.

'We must get you married, anyhow,' said Rosemary, with a smile. 'We can't have you going off together as heathens – no matter how many heathens are there already. Two weddings in two weeks! How will Susan manage?'

From the kitchen there was a sound that none of us had ever heard before. It sounded like a plate being dropped and broken.

'You needn't worry about marrying us off,' said Jem. 'We took care of it in town today. Show them your ring, Mrs. Blythe!'

Faith – Faith _Blythe_! – put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a shining gold circlet. And in the kitchen, Susan broke another dish, but Mother quickly forgave her for it. In similar circumstances, I think even Mother – calm, composed Mother – would have done the same!

'We've beat you to it,' said Jem to me. 'I _am_ sorry, Spider, but I thought I'd test the waters before you jumped in.'

'And how is it?' I laughed. I don't mind at all, of course.

'Better than I could have expected,' said Jem, giving Faith a big, smacky kiss.'

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Thanks for all the reviews! I kept a few things in mind while writing this story, so far. First, don't worry, there will be a lot of the 'other' children here. I feel like LMM didn't quite know what to do with them in RoI, but I've got lots of plans for them, as you can see in this chapter!

I wanted to include some Di, and I wanted to show how close she and Walter were, because that was quite a big deal in AoI and RV, but LMM seem to forget their closeness in RoI, somewhat. And what would a Rilla-story be without Jims? He was such a big part of her life. I don't plan on making her die, though. At least, not yet….HAHAHAHA. Joking. I don't think I could kill her off.

Persis and Carl are indeed Persis and Carl (why do so many of us see them together? But they just fit so well!). There will be more about that later. I've always loved Mary Vance, too, so I was glad to be able to include a bit of her, here. Mary Vance had blond hair? I always totally pictured her hair black, but I can't change it now. To me, Mary has black hair and I can't change that.

I don't think Rilla would have been too afraid of Leslie disapproving of her – but Ken is a 'city boy,' and there was very little mention of Leslie and Owen in RoI – maybe she's just being a goose, as always.

More soon! And I haven't forgotten the other stories. Just taking a break.

I urge all of you to check out adriennelane's wonderful lmm fanfiction blog, at lmmfanfiction. It's great!


	7. The First Bride of Ingleside

2Rilla Blythe married Kenneth Ford, as planned, one week before Christmas, in the parlour of Ingleside. All of her friends and family were there – and his. Aunt Leslie was lovely as ever in a deep violet silk – her 'clothes were purple and gold' as always. She and Mrs. Dr. Blythe held hands through the service and shared secret, happy smiles. Rilla had an inordinate number of bridesmaids – Una and Nan, Persis and three of her friends from Junior Reds, and a thin, pale, but happy Di was maid of honor. Faith would have stood up for her, too, if she had not become Mrs. Blythe before Rilla became Mrs. Ford. All the same she looked lovely on Jem's arm in her green chiffon.

Rilla came down the stairs in her wedding dress – lovingly wrought by Mrs. Dr. Blythe and Miss Cornelia – a shining, shimmering, living dress that seemed made of starlight instead of silk. Her mother's veil was draped over her lovely red-brown curls, and there was a flash of Aunt Marilla's purple gem at her throat. Rilla held a cluster of narcissus in arms as strong and lovely as if they had been made of marble.

Kenneth felt his breath catch as he watched her – they all did. But Ken was rather hard put to keep his face composed – _here_ was his woman, _here_ was the girl he loved. She would be by his side for all the living they had ahead of them to do. Those darling hands would hold their children and tuck them in at night. _Here _was what he had been fighting for. He remembered an old verse that he had learned in Sunday school: _She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life. _And he would do for her the same.

Jerry married them – it was his first wedding, and he would never forget it. It was rather odd, Rilla thought, to see Jerry in his robes in the forefront and Mr. Meredith in his plain clothes in the background. If he had done a less thorough job Rilla would have felt for ever that she wasn't properly married – but Jerry did a fine job, so she felt, as she told Kenneth Ford that she would love and honor him, as properly married as one might be. Nan looked on and beamed with pride.

The parlor was hung with holly and ivy and boughs of Rainbow Valley spruce that gave off a wonderful scent. They at their wedding feast by candlelight, and it was as witching and happy a dinner as had ever been. No one noticed the food, despite all of Susan and Rilla's careful planning. It was quite a simple little ceremony and dinner, and Betty Mead, bridesmaid, whispered to Rita Crawford, ditto, that she had expected more pomp and circumstance from dear Rilla – but somehow, this little family dinner seemed to suit her more than any other kind of celebration could have.

It began to snow after the wedding-cake was cut, and the world became a silent soft white. They all gathered around the fire – Kenneth Ford's hand was resting on the veiled head of his little wife as she sat by his feet. "Of all the brides that have ever walked down the stairs of this house, my Rilla must be the loveliest."

"I don't know if there has ever been another bride here," mused Miss Cornelia, resplendent in blue crepe. "Fred Morgan married his wife in Vancouver and then brought her here, and before that, this house was owned by three sisters – all spinsters. They lived here until they died, and the Morgans bought it. Their father built it. Rilla is the first bride of Ingleside. Unless there were some goings-on that _I_ was not aware of."

Miss Cornelia's tone implied that if there _were_ any goings-on, anywhere in the world, she _would_ know about them.

"Marilla once told me," said Anne Blythe, eyes aglow, "That a house really wasn't a home until there was a birth, death, and marriage in it. All the children but for Jem were born here, and – and there have been deaths here. And now, because of you two," Anne looked at the beautiful bride and her groom, "This house is finally a home."

The thought of this place being anything _but_ a home! It was the very essence of home.

"To the first bride of Ingleside," said the doctor, raising his glass. "To my little Rilla and her Ken."

"To Rilla and Ken," they all echoed, and the walls of Ingleside embraced back the happy noise.

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Rilla did not let Susan cloak her in a big, wool shawl for the walk to the House of Dreams. Nor would she allow anyone to wrap a coat around her shoulders. Susan was scandalized – she would catch her death! – but Mother, dear Mother, understood.

"It is impossible to be a bride and wear anything woolen," she laughed. "It's only cross-lots, darling – and you won't be too cold if you run!"

Rilla, shivering, from both happiness and cold, did just that, with her cluster of narcissus in one hand and Kenneth's own hand in the other. They turned back to wave at the folks on the verandah, who were clapping and cheering and waving back. Some may have been dashing tears away – tears of fond memories, tears for the too swift passage of time.

"Wasn't Rilla just yesterday a baby?" asked Dr. Blythe, quite bewildered, to his wife.

"Wasn't Kenneth?" asked Leslie Moore, to her husband.

Rilla and Kenneth did not dawdle in the fir wood as they might have on any other night. It was really too cold, and Rilla's gossamer dress did not keep the goosebumps on her arms from showing. Whether those _were_ from the cold or from the fact that the House of Dreams had just come into view – ah, that Rilla was not entirely sure of.

The little house that had held so much living was all lighted up. There was a candle in every window, lit by the group of young people who had slipped away during the dinner and come back laughing, full of secrets. There was a fire in the old hearth, as well. The door to the house was unlocked, and the whistle and twirl of snow and wind in the eaves seemed to be saying to them to _come in, come in!_ The little white house had the air of a house that has already done much living – but still has more to do. Kenneth took his wife again by the hand.

"Welcome home," he whispered, and hand in hand they stepped over the threshold of _their_ house of dreams.

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The last line is from Anne's House of Dreams. I reused it here, because I thought it was appropriate.


	8. So Goes Time By

Rilla's first weeks of married life passed like a dream. There were so many things to do! She sang and swept the little house – although it had been so well kept there wasn't really the need, it was something she _must_ do. It was a joy to scour its floors and set the table with her pretty plates at mealtimes – to hem new muslin curtains for the kitchen windows – to mend cushions and move furniture – to clean the windowpanes so that the glass was like crystal. Kenneth smiled to see her at it when he walked back from the _Notes_ office in the Glen – though he kissed her fingers and told her she mustn't work so hard because he _wouldn't_ have her spoiling her beautiful hands with work. Rilla laughed and didn't mind – she could think of nothing better than to spoil herself working for home and family – Rilla, who had been none to fond of her household chores before! But she did not mind working to build a nice home for Kenneth. Miss Cornelia, as a wedding present, had hired a little French girl to come up from the Lowbridge and help Rilla to keep house, but after the first day she was sent packing.

"I don't _want_ anyone to help me," said Rilla, who had once thought she would need a Domestic Science course! "I want to do it all _myself_ – it's nicer, when you look things over afterwards, to know that it is because of _you_."

When the house was spotless, and supper had been eaten of Miss Marilla Cuthbert's willowware plates, the newlyweds would sit by their fire and turn off all the lights to let the night into the place. Rilla took the place of honor an old, funny, cushioned, high-backed chair that had once belonged to a certain Captain Jim and was, now, by way of a family heirloom. Kenneth sat at her feet and reflected that there was nothing dearer on the earth than a little wife and a carefully tended house – that there was nothing more worth working hard and fighting for.

"Although I shall never forgive myself for cheating you out of a honeymoon," he said wistfully one evening. "It is a pity that I have to work – but I do, if I ever want to get somewhere. You should be in the heart of Paris – or at the top of some Tyrol Alp – or looking over ancient wonders in Greece and Rome. _Not_ tucked away in Four Winds, working your fingers to the bone."

Rilla looked at him indulgently in the firelight. She felt, for the first time in her life, like a woman – she felt that all the secrets of womanhood had been unlocked to her.

"There is no place I would rather be in the world," she said very simply. Rilla Blythe might have one day longed to see the wonders of the ancient world – but for Rilla Ford the thousand little, daily, household wonders were more than enough. She had no desire to be anywhere _but_ their little home o'dreams, and she especially did not want to see the land where so much suffering had occurred – the place where Walter had died – the land where Kenneth had been when he had been away from her for so long.

"I don't want you to ever look back on anything and wonder 'what if..'" Kenneth explained. "You may have anything you want – even a career, if your heart desires it. I shall never stand in your way. There should be no regrets in a heart as sweet and pure as my little wife's. If you change your mind we'll go for a honeymoon in the spring. I'll get the time off by hook or by crook."

"I've my garden to set out in the spring!"

Rilla thought back over her short life – all she remembered of it – with an especial focus on the last years – the war years. _Did_ she regret anything – anything at all? She wished she had not bought that silly green velvet hat that had seemed so extravagant! But she had learned from it, so she was glad for it in the end. She wished she had not lisped when Kenneth had come home – but she did not regret it any longer. It was a dear memory. She wished – Walter – had not died. But she didn't dare regret that. Walter had told her she must lead a life filled with faith and hope, with faith and hope there was no room for remorse, no time to be wasted on what-could-have-beens.

Kenneth wound his fingers 'round Rilla's the way he always did when he was sure she was thinking about Walter.

"No regrets," said Rilla, very seriously. "Except – oh, Ken, that Susan saw you helping with the supper dishes when she came up for dessert to-night! And _you_ told her we were going to have a 'modern' marriage – she will never let me hear the end of it!"

"She liked your apple-cake anyway, wife o'mine," Ken said, proudly.

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They had all been under strict orders from Mrs. Blythe to not pester the newlyweds with visits and "poppings in." They must have time to get to know each other as they now were, man and wife. But someone could not help dropping by for some reason or another every day.

It started with a small, going-away gathering for Jem and Faith – the Young Doctor and Young Mrs. Dr. dear as they were beginning to be known. The party was a droll, gay gathering – nothing like the maudlin feast that Susan would have arranged if it had been up to her. Rilla managed them all so wonderfully that they forgot it was not just another dinner-party, and when Faith and Jem went away to the station, no one used the words 'good-bye.' It was just as Jem had wanted.

"I've heard those detestable words enough for one lifetime," he said to Rilla.

The party was such a success that they all forgot they were not to be bothering the new Mrs. Ford, as well. Nan came daily to sit in Rilla's high-backed chair and get her help with the sewing for her own wedding – no plain, silken, satiny duds for a bride such as Nan. Her silk dress was just a canvas for the yards of chantilly lace and little pearl beads that they sewed to it. Una was up, often, bringing Rilla something of what ever she had made that day up at the manse – a plate of wheat scones, or a rhubarb tart, or a jar of a marvelous apple relish that she had found in a recipe in a magazine. She never stayed long – unless Shirley had stopped by, as he often did, to talk with Ken. Then the two went and sat in the House of Dreams garden for as long as they could without their noses freezing! Even in the dead of winter, that garden was a charmed place.

Di came to sit on the window seat and be silent – she did not really talk – but Rilla knew it was a comfort to Di to be around another sister who had shared a bond with the black-browed lad they loved. Every now and again Di would look up, and Rilla would meet her liquid gray eyes and know of whom she was thinking. Anyway, Rilla told herself, it was nice to have a chance to fatten Di up! She tempted her with a constant stream of delicacies – Di would, at times, be so lost in her thoughts that she would take a bit without noticing.

Mary Vance had the tendency to call frequently and unannounced. Rilla, who had once resented Mary, found she didn't now, and that she and Mary, as two wives, could while an evening away quite pleasantly talking over the minutiae of married life. The doctor, who passed by often, late at night, from a visit to some sick soul on the shore road, always stopped in for a cup of tea and a quick bite – Rilla loved to take care of him and had told him that he must.

Even Mrs. Blythe and Susan would come up once an evening in a while, to while away a blustery evening in 'little Rilla's' cheerful abode. They chatted or read Jem and Faith's letters from halfway around the world. Jem wrote that the heathens weren't at all the desperate folk that they had learned in Sunday school – in some ways, they seemed happier and more contented than most folks on the Island. Wasn't it strange?

It was hard for Rilla to convince Susan to sit down and relax – she was ever jumping up to get more tea, or to straighten the curtain or pull something off the stove. Rilla, armed with a wooden spatula – finally had to bar her way, let Susan pull her beloved kitchen to pieces and put it back together again in a way that suited her. So passed the winter of Rilla's new life this way, in a house full of love and laughter and warmth. It was delicious – she _ate_ up the joys of each day.

And suddenly, almost without warning, it was spring.

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A/N: Someone asked if Rilla wasn't the first bride of Ingleside since Miranda Pryor had her wedding there in RoI? Well, I did a quick edit, sure that you were right, until it was brought to my attention that though Miranda Pryor's wedding preparations were made at Ingleside, her wedding was at her home – it was the one promise she had made her dying mother, to never run away and get married. So Rilla is the first bride of Ingleside after all! I've edited the chapter _again_ to show it.


	9. A Twilight Vignette

Rilla attacked her journal with a pen one early spring evening.

"It has been an unsettling day," she wrote, forming the letters carefully. "I went over to Ingleside this morning to help Mother in her garden. We are all so glad that the war is over – for so many reasons – but one little reason is that we can plow up the victory garden and plant a proper garden at Ingleside again. The potato plants served their purpose nicely and got our boys fed – they even looked quite pretty in bloom, even if it was in a ridiculous way – but they are not half so nice as the lovely tulips and rosebushes that Mother and I set out. Or had _almost_ _finished_ setting out. We never got the chance to twine the final bush to the trellis, for Nan slipped out when we were almost done and stood on the verandah and watched us.

"What are you thinking, Nan o'mine?" asked mother quite cheerily – if only she had known!

"That is when Nan told us that she will not marry Jerry the last Saturday in March.

"She said it quite calmly but miserably. Mother and I just stood, mouths agape. Of _course_ Nan would marry Jerry – she would – she was always meant to marry him. She _would_!

"I won't," said Nan, just as calmly, but with a little, terrible catch in her voice. "Oh, Mother – I can't." Then she picked up her skirts and fled down to Rainbow Valley.

"We do not know what went wrong, for Nan will not say anything more than to say she _won't_. Even Jerry doesn't know – Una came down and told us that he is quite as perplexed as the rest of us. Father thinks that it is because of Jerry's new moustache – it really _doesn't_ suit him – and that Nan is being a silly goose. Father is not often wrong but I feel that he _is_ in this instance. I know Nan – I saw her face when Jerry told her he would be going to 'fight the fight' – and again when the news came that he had been shot. She loves him desperately, of this I am sure. So what could have caused it?

"The invitations have already gone out!" said Mother, in a tone of despair. Of course this is the last thing she cares about – she really only wants Nan to be happy – but at a time like this, when the whole world seems to have turned on its axis, the smallest things are the easiest to contemplate.

"For now we will do nothing. Susan still cooks away and she has told us several times that the wedding _will_ take place on that last Saturday – even if she has to go out and find a bride and groom from someplace else.

"I'm sorry for Nan – there should be nothing to mar the happiness of a bride, and _something_ must be weighing on her soul for her to act this way. Poor Jerry simply _haunts_ Ingleside – to no avail. Nan will not relent – though something in her hazel eyes tells me that she wants to – wants to more than anything. If I were a better sister I would go to her and put my hands on her shoulders – gently – and _make_ her tell me everything. But I am too afraid of being shut out, shut off from her.

"I must be a bad sister, because even after this turmoil, the lure of my garden is calling to me and I _must_ heed it. I am a sister to the violets, too – and if I cannot go to Nan, well, then – I will go to them!"

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Rilla slipped out the kitchen door of the House of Dreams and stepped right into the twilit spruce grove that surrounded the little house – enveloped it – protected it. A copse of daffodils glowed in the long green shadows and she gloated over them much as a mother does her sleeping child. How lovely were the silhouettes of the new roses against the old, mellow brick wall! How lovely the young green leaves on the poplars were!

It had been Kenneth's ides to set out a row of tulips along the walk – his mother had always done so in the old days – and Rilla went to glory in them now. She loved tulips more than any other flower – except for daisies – and violets – and oh, yes, the roses! They were such dear little elfin flowers – cups of dew at morning and vessels for the moonlight by night. Suppose she were to tip one fairy cup and a moonbeam spilled out at her feet!

The House of Dreams was lovely by any light, but at twilight it was especially dear. Rilla loved the one golden light that shone out from the parlor – loved the lone apple bough that dropped down over the porch like a wayward curl on a smooth brow. There was a small basket on the topmost of the wide sandstone steps. Rilla grinned. It was from Una, of course – dear Una – who knew how much Rilla loved blueberries. They were simply _swimming_ in blueberries at the manse and there were none here at the House of Dreams. She could – Rilla thought, with a little thrill – make a blueberry pie – her first blueberry pie for Kenneth, who loved blueberry pies – Rilla was a new enough bride that she still thrilled at all the firsts. She took one last, loving look at her little house – then grabbed the basket, which was –_oof!_ – much heavier than expected. They must have had a _very_ good blueberry crop at the manse this year.

Then stood, electrified, as the baby in the basket – the _baby_! In the _basket_! – gave a hungry cry.


	10. Motherhood?

Susan Baker said, when she saw the child, that it resembled no one _she_ knew – and she knew every person in both Glens, Upper and Lower. And Susan was not of the opinion that a baby could theoretically, resemble no one at all but rather look only like itself.

"Has not little Jem been the spitting image of the doctor from the moment he was born?" she asked Rilla, who had not been there and consequently did not know. "And there is no denying your own chin, Rilla dear."

"It is a sweet baby, whoever it belongs to," smiled Anne, her eyes limpid. There was _something_ about a new life – no matter whence and whither it had come – that made her heart thrill. "Aren't you, you dear wittle twickums! Rilla, you must never speak to your children in baby talk – it isn't good for them. I read it in a medical journal, didn't I, you tweet ickle ting?"

"What are we going to do with it?" asked Rilla bluntly. She was not about to let herself be drawn into an argument on looks _or_ child-rearing when there was a more urgent matter at hand!

The baby gave a small cry and Anne deftly passed it off to Susan.

"We haven't come unprepared," she said. "Susan packed the old baby-basket full of nappies and bottles and we've a _few_ garments left over from Jims. They will do nicely for tonight."

"It can't – stay – _here_," gasped poor Rilla.

"Of course it can," said Mother matter-of-factly. "For the night, at least – in the morning your father can make inquires 'round the place – if anyone we know of has had a baby in the past few months he will know about it, or else Dr. Mead in Lowbridge will know, if he doesn't."

"I can't take care of it!" Rilla stammered.

"Nonsense! You raised Jims with the skill of a dozen mothers."

"But Jims had – nobody – else – and this baby _belongs_ to someone," said Rilla desperately. "It is too great a responsibility, Mother! And oh – what will Kenneth say?"

Mother's eyes smiled. "What can he say? You can't leave it in a basket on the porch all night."

Rilla cursed the out of the way location of the House of Dreams. If only they had nearer neighbors – maybe the basket would have ended up on someone _else's_ porch!

Susan deposited the baby, in a fresh nappy, in Rilla's limp arms.

"She is not an especially pretty baby," said Susan. "Not like any of _you_ children – but I cannot see anything wrong with her. She has a little brown skin that reminds me of Shirley – but I have never seen such big black eyes. She is a good, strong thing and there is no reason to think that there is anything wrong with her when you hear her cry."

Cry the baby did, and something in Rilla's heart turned over. Suppose, she asked herself, _you_ were just a little baby – surrounded by strange people – and your mother had left you somewhere that wasn't _home_? She settled herself, almost without thinking, into Captain Jim's old chair and began to rock the baby until it settled.

"Susan – can you please take the basket up to my room?" she said, resigned. "Mother, if you could make me a bottle, I'll feed her."

The ladies snapped into action, and the scrawny little baby fed and then fell limply into sleep.

"You are – sweet," said Rilla as the baby gave sleepy, milky, fitful sighs. "But then all babies are – it's no great feat. You belong to someone, and I _won't_ let myself get attached. I wish you could tell us where your mother is!"

"You do have an extraordinary talent for acquiring kiddies," laughed Mother.

Rilla nodded grimly – and took the baby up to lay in her basket. Then she got to work mending some of the rips in Jims's old things – this baby had nothing but a sleazy little dress and that would never do.

Kenneth came home to see them sitting there, dimly lit and cosy-looking, and gave a great exclamation of greeting. It _was_ nice to come home. And then stood electrified as the women told him to hush – or he'd wake the baby!

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Rilla slept fitfully – she was tormented by dreams where a faceless mother tormented her for the thousand crimes she had committed against her child. Perhaps she was too warm in her basket? Or too cold? She would not take another bottle but what if she was really hungry? Perhaps the diaper pins were sticking her – what if she _was_ sick, or there _was_ something wrong with her? Rilla hopped up out of bed at least a dozen times to check on the child. Then reflected that the faceless mother couldn't have cared _too_ much if she had left the child on any old doorstep!

Still, she wrapped the baby in a blanket and went down to the window seat and cuddled her.

"I wonder what your mother wanted to call you," asked Rilla. "What do you look like to me – are you a Mary? Or an Elizabeth? Or a Lillian – or Doris? _I_ think you look like a black-eyed Susan – with your big dark eyes and light hair. I would called you Susan – Suzanne – if I could name you. But I won't get attached – I won't – I –"

Rilla and the baby were fast asleep.

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They had had the baby for two days by the time that Rilla finally allowed herself to love her.

She was a sweet baby – yes, all babies are sweet – but little Suzanne – Rilla could not help calling her that, in her own mind – was the _sweetest_. She hardly ever cried – not unless she was hungry – Rilla woke in the morning to hear her cooing from her basket. She had a thin little face – but she broke out in dimples when she smiled. Father had said that the baby was about three months old – but from that smile Rilla herself guessed it was more like four.

Even Kenneth admitted she was sweet. Something thrilled in Rilla to see his big capable hands hold such a small little being – and he talked to her as if she were a grown-up, very seriously, with a hint of humor. Rilla herself had fallen into the trap of baby talk – something she had always eschewed with Jims. But there was no Book of Morgan for this baby – Rilla did not need Dr. Morgan to tell her what this baby needed. She _knew._

"What will we do with her?" asked Kenneth on the evening of the third day – had it been only three days? "Will we keep her, Rilla?"

"Can we?" asked Rilla doubtfully. "Father and Dr. Mead have canvassed every household in the Glen – Dr. Mead has even gone to Lowbridge and Dovedale – and no one knows anything about a baby, or at least they won't admit it if they do. But she belongs to someone. I don't know what the protocol is in this situation – but I can't see taking her to Hopetown. I don't know if I could bear it."

Kenneth nodded and caressed the little baby-hand – such a small but perfectly formed little hand! "We'll see," he said. "We'll see."

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On the fourth day, at twilight – a warm, windy twilight like the night she had first discovered the basket – Rilla was on the porch with the baby in the basket, knitting a pair of bootees. She had never been a _great_ knitter like Nan or Di – and all of her attention was focused on the task at hand. She did not notice the figure coming down the lane – she did not notice a girl in white slip into the garden – but she did look up as the girl approached the porch. Shyly – and almost bashfully she came. Something in Rilla's heart turned over. Susan had been right about one thing – she recognized that light hair – and those big eyes.

Rilla thought she knew the girl – Sophy something-or-other, one of the Acadian girls from Frenchtown. The sister of that Sadie that had come to clean for Miss Cornelia. Rilla laid down her knitting and picked the baby up out of the basket.

"It's all right," she said to the girl, who was hovering by the roses. "Come and take her – you must miss her awfully. She – is – very sweet."

The girl took the baby hungrily, peering down at the little face as if she had been seeking it the world over. Something hot swelled in Rilla's chest. The baby opened her eyes then and seeing her mother gave a little cry of delight – reached her small hand up! The young mother gave a little cry of her own and said something low in French. Then she looked at Rilla almost defiantly – but with something pleading behind her eyes.

"I thought I could live without her but I was wrong," she said, in a soft, accented voice.

"You have come to take her back," said Rilla, "And I am sorry to lose her because I love her – but oh – I'm glad. Every girl – needs – her _mother_."

"My Paul did not come back – from sea," said the girl. "And I wanted her – to have – everysing – you understand?"

"I do," said Rilla. "But she doesn't need everything – she just needs you. But you will let me come and see her sometimes, won't you? I have grown so fond of her – and you will let me bring you things – if you need them – for her?"

The girl nodded and her eyes flashed with gratefulness. Rilla's own eyes brimmed but her heart was glad.

When Sophy had gone with the child, Rilla took the basket and put it away – but not in the garret. She put it on the window seat of the little spare room – they would need it again, soon, after all. When Kenneth came home he gave a wry smile to see his wife alone on the step, her white arms clasped around her knees.

"It's all worked out for the best, then?" he asked.

"Come and sit with me, for I've something to tell you," Rilla said, and chose that moment to tell him what she had known all along, herself.

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	11. Nan Speaks

An out-of-season evening is a balm on the spirit. On that beloved isle of Abegweit, late March was often a time of cool days and drizzly evenings – but that particular late March was as warm and lovely as June. Rilla decided to take advantage of it, for their might be snow in May, and, for old times' sake, wended her way to Rainbow Valley.

She had a glad half-hour of dabbling her feet in the brook and looking for the first mayflowers to take to her mother – Jem, who had always done it before except for those long, hard war-years, had written to her to ask her to do it especially. That was not _all_ he had written – it seemed there would be _two_ new additions to the family come Christmas time!

It was not the starry pink mayflowers that Rilla stumbled across, but rather, Nan. Lying among the rushes she looked like a young naiad – although a very troubled naiad. Rilla thought with a pang how it was to be Nan's wedding this weekend – to Jerry – but she showed no signs of relenting to whatever it was that had perturbed her in the first place. Jerry's moustache was gone, even! But still, Nan would not relent. All of them had near given up hope except for Susan, who baked on. These things, she said, had a way of working out.

Nan had tucked a daffodil in her hair and Rilla gloated over the pretty picture she made, even with her stormy eyes and wrinkled brow. _Had_ she ever been jealous of Nan's beauty? Rilla couldn't remember now. She must have been very silly if she had been. A little, loved, contented wife with a burgeoning family is hard pressed to be envious of anyone, even an especially lovely sister. If you find one, just ask her. You'll see.

"It is a pity that Di can't be here for the daffodils," sighed Rilla, when it became apparent that Nan would not speak. "Of course Green Gables is lovely in the spring – the White Way of Delight all abloom – and Di is good to go to Uncle Davy when he needs her – but she _must_ be homesick for _our_ daffodils."

Quick as lightning, Nan tore the yellow blossom from her hair and threw it to the ground where it was crushed under the heel of her little boot.

"Nan!" cried Rilla, aghast and desperate, "What is the matter? Won't you tell me? We are all so _worried_."

"I won't – I can't," said Nan in a dead voice.

"What has Jerry done?" Once Rilla had started she found it hard to stop. "It can't be so horrible as _that_, Nan – Jerry is – Jerry – Jerry is a _minister_."

"It isn't anything that Jerry has done," cried Nan. "How could you think anything – bad – of him? He is the best – he is the very best."

"You love him!" Rilla accused.

"Love him!" Nan gave a bitter laugh. "Of course I do – of _course_ – and that is what has fouled everything up."

Rilla took her sister's cold white hands in her own and sat, easing Nan down with her.

"Won't you tell me what is wrong, then?" she pleaded. "Oh, Nan – we are all worried – I believe Mother will make herself sick with worry. Please – darling – tell _me. _I can help you! If you love Jerry – and he loves you, he _does_ – what can the matter be? Everything is perfect."

Nan's lip trembled – her eyes welled – she tore her hands furiously away.

"It _is_ perfect," she spat. "That is the problem – it will never _stay_ perfect – our happiness is bound to decay. Something will go wrong – we were all so happy _before_ – and look where that has gotten us. I cannot marry Jerry – though I love him so. I – don't want – our perfect happiness – to be spoiled. I can't risk it. I can't _lose_ it."

Something dawned in Rilla's heart – a truth, an understanding – and she again reached for the little – trembling now – white hands.

"There are long years of happiness for you by-and-by," she said, in a voice that would echo down the ages. "And you will tell your children of the Idea we fought and died for--teach them it must be lived for as well as died for, else the price paid for it will have been given for naught. And if you--all you girls back in the homeland--do it, then we who don't come back will know that you have not 'broken faith' with us."

They sat for a long time after she had finished speaking. The brook spoke for them – babbling and talking over itself.

"Walter?" asked Nan, in a little choked voice.

"Yes," said Rilla. "You see, don't you, Nan, why you must marry Jerry – and 'keep faith' – and risk everything. Don't you? I did it – Faith did it – Di will, one day, as well. And you will, too. Because you love Jerry – and because there are some women who will not have the chance to take that risk."

"I am so – afraid," said Nan quaveringly. "Anything could happen – anything could take him from me."

"It is the price we pay for loving," said Rilla, wise beyond her scant years. Something had taught her the truth in what she spoke – Walter – or the great Something that puts truth and joy in all of us.

"My dress isn't anywhere _near_ finished," said Nan finally.

"I'll sew every hour of the day between now and Saturday," said Rilla.

"The invitations were rescinded – "

"No!" Rilla shook her head, a smile beginning to play at the corners of her mouth. "Mother didn't – she thought she'd wait and see, like all of us."

"The food," said Nan, in horror.

"Dear little brown-haired sister, have you been too preoccupied to notice that Susan has been cooking up a storm these past weeks?"

Nan smiled, and it was like a sunset beam over the harbor.

"Well," she said. "I suppose I'll _have _to marry Jerry on Saturday, then. Since you all seem so dead set on it."

Rilla was so pleased that she actually clapped her hands with glee. "Oh, Walter! Walter! See what you can do, even now?"

"I can keep the faith as good as you," said Nan, her eyes aglow.

"_If we keep faith with those who die_

_They shall not sleep," _quoth Rilla. "Let's go up to the house and tell everyone your news! Ingleside loves a wedding."

"Won't Susan gloat over this?" Nan wrapped her arms around Rilla's still-slim waist.

"Of course," said Rilla, happily. "But we won't mind. She's earned it."


	12. Old Friends

"The wedding that almost wasn't has gone off without a hitch," said Rilla, when they had waved the new Rev. and Mrs. Meredith out of sight and the guests had all departed. She gave a happy sigh. "And wasn't it like a dream? Wasn't Nan everything a bride _should_ be?"

"Nan is a rose – a little, full-blown, gypsy rose," said Mrs. Blythe dreamily. "It is hard to believe that _two_ of my daughters are married! Sometimes I look in the mirror and still expect to see myself as the little bride of the House of Dreams. Rilla, put those plates down – I won't have you exerting yourself. Susan and Di and I can more than manage."

"Come and sit with me," said Gertrude Grant from her place on the settee by the window, "And we'll talk everything over. Half the fun of a wedding is talking it over afterwards."

Rilla sat, quite uneasily, with a laugh. "I feel so lazy and idle sitting here while the others work."

"Don't! You're doing me a service – I can't move around so easily in this state and you're keeping me occupied. And I haven't had the chance to talk with you for so long. Besides, Rilla," Gertrude laid a hand on her burgeoning belly, "We _aren't_ being idle. We're bringing forth a new generation of Canadians – and that," she laughed, blowing an idle curl off her forehead, "Is strenuous work indeed!"

Rilla brought a footstool for Gertrude's feet and then slipped out of her silver slippers and curled her own feet under her. She studied her friend's face in the moonlight – she could never cease to be amazed by the change that had come over Gertrude in the months since the war's end – in the months since she herself had been a bride over-harbor. Her sallow skin had grown creamy and she seemed lit from within – her dark eyes glowed like hot embers – a little smile was ever playing at the corners of her lips. Surely, at times it could still be sardonic and sarcastic – Gertrude had not changed _that_ much. But she looked as contented as a sleek, dark cat – and happy. She looked so very happy. Rilla supposed they had Robert to thank for that.

"I _am_ sorry Robert couldn't come to the wedding," sighed Rilla, taking her old friend's hand and twining their fingers together. "I feel I know him so little – I was just a kid when I met him – and I didn't get so much time to talk to him after the wedding. I would like to know the man that has made you so happy, Gertrude."

"You wouldn't like him – he's dark and brooding, like me – or at least, he pretends to be." Gertrude was matter-of-fact. "He likes to wear a frown – he thinks it makes him dashing, and it does. But it's all a put on – when we are at home we are as happy as two clams – ridiculously happy. But he is nothing like your golden Ken, Rilla."

"Ken is a dear," smiled Rilla. "It was wonderful of him to chauffer Jerry and Nan to the train station. A honeymoon in Boston! It's so glamorous – you should see Nan's travelling clothes. I'm not a bit jealous – her cashmere suit is divine – it looks like it grew on her. It would be sacrilege for anyone else to wear it. That color of rose is reserved for Nan and Nan alone."

"Didn't she make a glamorous bride?" asked Gertrude ruefully. "I felt positively homespun next to her, Rilla. But that might be because they don't make raiments of silver and gold for people of my size – and condition. But I have the feeling that even if I had been wearing a dress of silk with a fillet of diamonds in my hair – and Nan a burlap sack – she would still make me feel the same way. I don't begrudge her for it – though it is tiresome being around so many of you good-looking people at Ingleside! I _know_ I'm not beautiful – even yet – though I've suspected I might be at least _pretty_ these past few months."

"You're beautiful through and through," Rilla protested. "With your onyx eyes and obsidian hair. And we're not such a good-looking group – you should have seen my hair this morning! I tried to have it set last night – Una came up to help me – it looked _so_ bad."

"Onyx and obsidian are two very fancy ways of saying the same thing," Gertrude retorted. "And you're the prettiest thing I've ever seen, Rilla Ford. But somehow – I don't feel plain next to you. When I'm near you, I feel as though some of your prettiness rubs off on me."

"I wish some of your smarts would rub off on me," Rilla moaned. "Mrs. Tilly Sanford dropped by last night to give us some of her white roses for Nan's bouquet – all of ours were blown to pieces in that storm last week, even the buds. She's an old soul – a dear old soul – even if she doesn't go to church at all. Mr. Meredith had never met her – I took I upon myself to introduce them. 'Rev. Meredith,' I said, very formally, 'I'd like you to meet Mrs. Silly Tanford!'"

Gertrude howled. "It's to be expected," she said knowledgeably. "It was like that with me in the beginning, believe me. Robert's mother picked us up at the train station for a visit and I just stared at her. Rilla – I couldn't, for the life of me, _remember her name_! I just opened and closed my mouth like a fish! I felt exactly the same way today when I shook Bruce Meredith's hand in the receiving line. That boy is going to get to be a man, soon, if he's not careful."

"Isn't he ridiculously tall? He's home just for the weekend – he's top of his class at Queens. They think he will win a scholarship next year – if Penelope Branston, over-harbor, doesn't beat him to it."

"He looks for all the world like Jerry," mused Gertrude. "I feel like I am looking at the Jerry of the old days when I see little Bruce. Though Jerry was looking quite like his old self, today."

"He was looking well – oh, Gertrude, did you see him mouthing the words of the ceremony along with his father? Jerry is really a minister through and through."

"Una pointed it out to me," laughed Gertrude – what a rich, crimson-y laugh she had. "Why wasn't Una a bridesmaid? I was wondering it through the whole ceremony."

"Una has been a bridesmaid for me – and was for Miranda Pryor – and was for Rosemary, long ago," Rilla pointed out. "Three times a bridesmaid and all that! No, Una isn't superstitious – she's really just too shy, I think. And I think she wanted to sit back and _enjoy_ this wedding – she and Jerry are so close – he was like a father to her for so long, back when Mr. Meredith was too dreamy to tend to the children much."

"I noticed her dancing with Shirley – three times," said Gertrude, slanting her eyes toward Rilla.

"Don't be sly! There is nothing there, Gertrude – they are just friends. Believe me."

"I will, then." Gertrude stretched lazily. "Little Someone-or-other is kicking me in my ribs, telling me that I've stayed up too late tonight. Rilla – hasn't it been good to sit here and talk of affairs of the heart instead of affairs of the state? I was so afraid that – the war – would have changed us all. But here we are, and it is quite like old times – _old_ old times – before any sadness touched our lives."

"You must go to bed, then," said Rilla. "Father said you mustn't under any circumstances, have the baby tonight. He's had a busy day as the father of the bride. And oh, Gertrude – I'm _glad_ we're chums. I've had so many nice friends in my life – and will have more – but you are the one that has been with me through the times when I needed a friend the most. I will never forget that. In fact," Rilla placed her hand on her friend's, "If _my_ little Someone-or-other is a girl – I'm going to call her Gertrude – after you."

"_Make new friends, but keep the old_

_One is silver and the other is gold,_" quoth Gertrude. "You're my golden friend, little Rilla – a sweet, mellow gold-hearted _dear_."

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A/N: I know everyone wanted more details about Nan's wedding, but I wanted to bring Gertrude into this story so I had to give it to you this way. Hope you can get a clear enough picture from the description. After all the turmoil and all the weddings, I thought it might be a little trite to write about it in the old way.

I think Bruce Meredith's age is a bit off – by the LMM timeline he should only be about 11 or 12 in this story. But LMM herself fudged with the ages of her characters so much – I figured she wouldn't mind if I did the same.

Thanks for all of the reviews!


	13. Rilla Writes

20 April 1920

I've been over at Gertrude's today – to see her new arrival! She has had a little baby girl – a scrawny little red thing, with a voice like thunder. She has a cap of black curls and the biggest black eyes – most babies' eyes are blue when they are born, Robert's mother says, but this baby's are a ferocious black, like Gertrude's own. When she cries she draws her brows together and looks quite fierce – Gertrude laughed with delight when she saw her do that. It reminds her, she says, of someone she knows – well! She and Robert are enchanted with her already.

Gertrude wanted to name her for me, but I have never used 'Bertha' and it sounds like someone else entirely. 'Bertha' is calm and cool and dignified – not a bit like me! I have never liked 'Marilla' – I loved Aunt Marilla so, but it is too flighty a name. So instead, Gertrude let me pick a name myself. I thought it over and settled on 'Lois.' It suits her – and there has never been a 'Lois' in the Glen or its environs. It will be a nice change from all the 'Sarahs' and 'Beths' and 'Janes.' It says in the baby book that 'Lois' means 'brave,' and that is something Gertrude has always been – she is one of the bravest people I know. They tacked on Roberta as a tribute to Robert. Lois Roberta Grant – it's a strong name, as Susan would say, and will wear well in a washing.

Speaking of Susan, she and I have been crocheting things for the baby since I came back to Ingleside this afternoon. Little Lois is the first baby of us young folks, and Susan admitted, over her half-finished bootee, that it makes her feel very old.

"It shouldn't," I told her. "You're as spry and capable as ever, dear Susan. And think of how much fun it will be to tell little Lois, when she is older, all the stories you know about her mother."

Susan ruminated – it is always fun to watch her think. You can almost see the wheels turning under her regal, iron-grey cap of hair.

"That it will be, little Rilla," she said finally. "No one knows Gertrude Oliver better than us here at Ingleside – and there are so many stories to tell about her during those long years. But I will be sure, mark my words, to never tell that darling babe about the time her mother almost said d—"

Father, passing by in the hall, stopped and raised an eyebrow, but Susan caught herself just in time!

1 May 1920

What an awful lot of visiting I do! I've just come back from Nan's little house – yes, she and Jerry are back from Boston. How funny Nan is – dropping all sorts of American slang into her speech – and she has a decided Yankee accent – or else she's trying to have! I'd think it ridiculous if she weren't so happy – and justified. None of us have ever been to the States, so Nan is quite right in putting on a few airs. I just hope the Yankee accent doesn't stick. As Norman Douglas says, it really is _ghastly_.

The little Lowbridge manse is lovely. It's far bigger than the Glen manse, but not so well-kept. They haven't had a Presbytarian minister there in so many years, but Lowbridge is becoming a big town in its own right now and Rev. Meredith and the trustees decided it was time they had a church of their own instead of having to come every week to services in the Glen.

Nan doesn't mind a bit that it is run down. She has such plans for it. It is really a dear house: a tall, narrow white brick that seems to go up and up for stories. It does look a bit like a tower – like if you stood on the rooftop you could reach heaven. That is, no doubt, why Jerry has started calling it Babel, which is hardly a Christian name for a minister's house, says Susan, but I don't mind. It puts me in mind of the hanging gardens of Babylon – of the spice and mysteries of far off places of long ago.

Di comes up with me on most days and we sit with Nan and chatter so long and loud that Jerry will probably have to re-name it 'Babble!' Father doesn't like to have Di sit out for so long in the night air, though. That is a new development, and an unwelcome one. Aunt Diana remarked, to Mother, during a visit last month, that "Di is really blooming – the color in her cheeks reminds me of Ruby, Anne. Remember how we all thought she was painted but she _wasn't_?"

It was the wrong thing to say – Mother has never forgotten that her old chum, Ruby Gillis, died quite suddenly of consumption. She and Father had a long and whispered conversation about it in the parlour that I never would have overheard if I hadn't been helping Susan clear the table. Mother was quite panicky – I don't like it when Mother is panicky – but Father's low rumble was reassuring. Still, he does not like Di to sit out o' nights lately and he has taken to looking at her with a very critical eye.

Perhaps Di's bloom is from something else? There was a letter in a bold black writing from Jack Wright on the parlour table when I went up this morning – the _third one_ in _two weeks_!

16 May 1920

I had a letter from Jem today – a bright, shining letter that has made me laugh – and cry – and be proud and glad – and proud again.

Jem – my boy-brother Jem – _has saved a life_. It is so strange to think about Jem – my _boy_-brother, Jem! – holding the powers of life and death in his hands – hands that scaled trees in Rainbow Valley, that caught trout in the brook and carved jack o' lanterns at Halloween. But he has – there is one more soul in the world tonight because of those lean capable hands of his.

He wrote about it quite matter-of-factly. A poor woman came to the mission hospital with her baby, who was blue-lipped and cold. The doctors – more experienced doctors – examined the child and their prognosis was grim – they thought the only thing to do was baptize it and let it have a Christian burial. But Jem _wouldn't_ give up. I know he must have gotten that look on his face that means grave and grim business, that means he will fight tooth and nail until he succeeds – I have seen it on his face so many times. I feel as though I can see it now.

And it was thanks to Jem that they found the problem – a small tear in the baby's airway – thanks to Jem that they operated and fixed it – thanks to Jem that that young mother has her baby to cuddle to-night. How proud I am of him!

Faith writes that Jem won't blow his own horn but that it has made him something of a _wunderkind_ in the area. Mothers that before did not trust the mission hospital are now bringing their children from neighboring islands to be inoculated and treated. Faith also writes that the little baby Jem saved has been named 'Kimo' – Hawaiian for James – and that she expects the islands will be peppered with Kimos and Jameses before long.

I showed the letter to Father and he said something very unlike him.

"I was wrong," he said. "Jem – Little Jem – was right to go."

1 June 1920

Can it be June already? The first June of my life as Rilla Ford is a birdsong – a rainbow – a moonbeam – and a rose rolled into one.

Kenneth and I had our first fight to-day. I don't even remember what it was about, really. I have been feeling weary lately – I took a nap – and when I woke it was past dinner time. Kenneth had come home and eaten and gone – it irked me that I should have missed him. It bothered me that he had gone without waking me for a kiss – it positively infuriated me that he had had to make his own lunch, and it made me hopping mad to see he hadn't put his plate on the drainboard after washing it. When Kenneth came home, he made a _comment_ – "I like my sandwiches better when _you_ make them. I can't slice the bread as thin as you," and all my feelings came tumbling out and I railed against Kenneth and the world for a while.

Kenneth – dear Ken – did really just the right thing. He let me rail. He let me have a good cry – and then he kissed my fingers and told me every thing he loved about me. I started to feel like a goose – I was really mad at _myself, _and I cried again because I felt so ridiculous. Kenneth let me cry myself out and then said,

"That shade of blue suits you perfectly – especially when your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are like wet diamonds."

And so our first argument has come and gone and I feel very silly – but oh, so well-loved! Irene Howard – yes, _still_ Howard, despite her plans and aspirations – was home last week and said, when I saw her in town the other day, I heard her say,

"I hear married life is _such_ a bore. All nagging and sniping and backbiting and," archly, "Not much else!

Poor Irene, to think that! But then _she_ hasn't a Ken – !

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Thanks for all the reviews. I'm sure some of you can see that the Di storyline isn't following the Di of Green Gables story. I thought I would change it up a bit to keep things interesting. I'll try to work in more Penny, if I can, and there will definitely be more Di.


	14. Di Makes an Announcement

Ingleside was astir!

For Di had announced, over Sunday dinner, that she would marry Carl before the summer was out. She had said it very calmly and coolly – her hands had trembled the merest bit so that she had to set her silverware gently down – she had tried to smile but had stopped halfway through to set her lips together in a firm line. The little party at the table had looked at her with questions in their eyes.

"Carl _Meredith_?" said the doctor finally. He really looked the most shell-shocked of all – he had thought of this day so many times over the years – when he had held Di's baby hand – when he had listened to her lisping voice – stroked her burnished head – all the while he had been conscious that one day a man would come and claim her. But he had thought he would _know_ – he had been absolutely sure he would feel a pang the moment Cupid's arrow pierced his dearest girl's heart.

And he had thought she would be happy. He had thought she would be a glowing, laughing bride-to-be – not this pale and frightened little ghost before him now. He knew some brides were full of nerves, but surely not Di – not his dear, bold, shining Diana?

"Yes, Carl Meredith!" Di gave a tinkling laugh. It sounded bright and false and fell flat. No one else around the table joined in. "Who else would it be? Do you know any other Carls?"

"We didn't – even – know you liked him – like that," said Rilla, a little helplessly, since no one else said anything. Not even Mother, who was always gracious and never at a loss for words. Not even Susan, who usually said _something_ in situations like this. "Did we?"

It was obvious that no one had, from the silence around the table.

"Well, I do," said Di, and there was a hint of stubbornness in her voice. It was as if she were trying to convince them. She tossed her head and her ruddy curls caught the candlelight. "You'll marry us, won't you, Jerry? We couldn't have anybody else, and you did such a good job of it with Ken and Rilla. Carl and I," Carl and _Di_? "Carl and I want it to be in Rainbow Valley – in August. You remember how I was the goddess of August in our concert so long ago? I wore a yellow dress – my bridesmaids will wear yellow in honor of that day. Carl and I have talked it over. Rilla – Nan – you both have beat me to it so I will have no sister to stand up for me – but Una is willing. It seems strange, that Una will be my sister, too!"

Things might have gone smoothly from there if Nan had not laughed. Rilla would have squeezed Di's hand and Kenneth and Jerry would have kissed her to congratulate her – Father would have given a toast and Mother gotten on the line with Rosemary to talk and plan things. Shirley would have given his best wishes in his quiet way. But Nan _did_ laugh – a short, barking, sarcastic little laugh. All heads swiveled toward the sound.

"Yes, Una will be your _sister_," Nan said hotly, Nan spit out the words. "And I hope you will be a better sister to her – I hope you will tell her things – like you haven't – told – me."

"It was so sudden," said Di. It was her turn to be shell-shocked, to sit unmoving. "Really, Nan, there wasn't really any time to tell anybody anyth – "

"I don't believe that for a second, Di Blythe!" cried Nan. No – _shouted_. In Ingleside, where there had never been any shouting before. "I would have known."

"I don't always tell you everything, Nan." Di was brittle. She waved her hand.

"I would have _known_," Nan repeated. "I always know you, just as you know me! Oh, what is wrong with you? Something is – we all know it. Won't you tell us? You aren't," Nan choked, "You aren't _yourself_."

"I was a bit low for a while, of course, but I am perfectly well now," said Di. Her voice was monotone, and it was as if she were a little child reciting a lesson. "I love Carl and he loves me – and that has changed everything."

"I suppose," Nan retorted, "That this has nothing to do with the fact that _Jack Wright_ hasn't written to you in ever so long – in weeks?"

Those were the magic words that should have unlocked all. But Di sat calmly. No spots of color appeared in her cheeks. She wiped her mouth daintily before going on.

"Jack Wright is nothing to me," she said honestly – and a little dully. "Just a friend. I do love Carl, and I will marry him. In August, this August."

Her eyes were pleading with them all to hear her, to believe her. Finally, Anne Blythe broke her frozen pose.

"Of course you will, darling," she said, stretching out her small, white hand to take Di's. "We are all happy for you, aren't we, Gilbert? Oh, we must open a bottle of cider and celebrate! Shirley, call over to the manse and ask them to come up – this is a marvelous event. We should celebrate together."

Nan said, "Oh!" in a small voice and stood and fled. Jerry followed her – but only after he gave Di a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Best wishes, Di," he said earnestly. "Of course Nan will come 'round – she _is_ happy for you – she's just taken aback by it. It was all so sudden, like you said."

"Have you gotten a ring?" asked Rilla, because Mother's eyes were upon her and she felt it was expected. Di stretched out to show her and Rilla did a weak job of exclaiming over the sapphire and the slim gold watch that Carl had put on her sister's hand.

"It was his mother's," said Di, her eyes bright, but not quite shining.

The manse folk were just as perplexed by it as the ones at Ingleside had been but they managed to make a gay party out of it, in the end. Nan's absence was not even noticed in the din. It was just like an engagement party _should_ be – Susan even managed to dig up a cake she had been saving for the Ladies' Aid tea. Everyone kept shooting glances at Di – who hid her flushed cheeks in Carl's shoulder – how strange it was to see his arm wrapped around her! It was almost like – they were – in _love_!

"We have lost her," said the doctor, with his eyes, to his wife.

"Not forever," she said back, without saying a word.

"I wonder _why_ Jack hasn't written?" thought Rilla, and then turned, with a bright smile, to welcome Carl to the family.


	15. Dramatic Love Affairs

"Rilla, dear – could you pass me the scissors?" asked Betty Mead with a chummy smile. "Thank you! Oops, watch the teacup, Reta! Aren't these teacups darling?"

"They were Miss Marilla Cuthbert's," Rilla explained, "And thus, my birthright. Would anyone like some more cake? One, two, three – I'll just be right back with your slices."

Rilla smiled to herself as she hied herself to her kitchen and cut three slices of the plummy cocoanut cake – Susan's recipe – that she had baked especially for this occasion. How nice it was to have all the Junior Reds together again! Especially now that they had other things to talk about besides the war and the terrible, worried looks had been lifted from everyone's faces! And, Rilla had to admit, despite her patriotic feelings, that it was _so_ much nicer to not be knitting socks! She ground her little teeth just _thinking_ of all the trouble she had had setting the heels of so many infernal pairs! Yes, it was much more enjoyable to piece quilts to be sent to Jem's mission hospital.

And, Rilla thought mischeviously, she did not mind the gossip. Four Winds was the dearest of all dear places but it was _terribly_ out of the way at times. She missed hearing all the news! Rilla quickened her step and picked up the tray bearing three rosebud plates. She did not want to miss the story of Millicent Drew's wedding – _poor_ Millicent!

"…and then, _crash_! The whole cake came down onto the floor," Betty Mead was saying. "Olive Kirk made a move to catch it and her bracelet – you know that awful carnelian horror she wears all the time? The one that looks like it has lumps of flesh sticking through it? – caught the table-skirt and brought down the whole meal – goose and all."

Rilla smothered a laugh. "Poor Millicent!" she repeated, just _barely_ suppressing her mirth.

Reta Crawford shrugged. "Millicent is a nice enough girl, but still a Drew," she said matter-of-factly, as if, by merit of her very Drewishness, Millicent had had it coming all along. And then, as an afterthought, "Sorry, Marjorie."

Marjorie Drew nodded peevishly. _She_ was not even _of_ that family of Drews, and was tired of being mistaken for one!

"I don't know what Millicent was thinking, having Irene Howard as her bridesmaid," said Minnie Clow, stabbing her needle through her cloth with a good amount of vim. No doubt Minnie was feeling slighted – she and the unfortunate Millicent had been good chums through their school years – until Irene Howard had come onto the scene. "She complained nearly the whole time – and spent the entire service making sheeps' eyes at the Reverend."

"You've never made sheeps' eyes at anyone, of course," spoke up Mary Vance Douglas from her place by the hearth. Her weird, white eyes met Rilla's and danced. "Why, just the other day Cornelia told me the story about how your mother and your father first met at a concert – she was batting her eyes at him the whole time, and when it was over, he came over to her and said, 'There seems to be somethin' in your eye, ma'am. Would you like to use my handkerchief?'"

Mary's impression of poor, slow George Clow was good-natured but right very apt. The group shrieked with laughter. Mary Vance was not a regular at the Junior Reds meetings, and had not been even during the war years. Minnie, looking at her sister Adella and exchanging a significant glance, felt that she would have preferred if Mary Vance _stayed_ somewhat on the fringes!

"It's a shame that Irene couldn't make it today," said naïve little Amy MacAllister, who had always wished Irene would deign to be her chum. But then, Amy was too pretty to be a favourite of Irene's – she always hung about with homely or much younger girls, so as to not be eclipsed by them. "_She_ said she would have come if the meeting were not being held here. Apparently," Amy's tone was very arch, "She feels your snubs _very_ keenly, Rilla. She told me you've been putting on airs since you have such a fine house and she has to live with her aunt!"

"Oh, pull in your claws, Amy." Betty Mead gave an exasperated sigh. "I heard what Irene said to you. She said, 'Rilla's been putting on airs now that she's managed to snag Ken.' And you know Irene was always hanging about Ken – it's a traditional case of sour grapes and that's that. She's peeved Rilla has him and she doesn't."

"Irene Howard's been going about with Shirley Blythe lately," said Amy triumphantly. "So it _can't_ be that."

The dainty rosebud plate that Rilla was clearing away trembled in her hand and she looked at Amy sharply. Shirley – was going around with Irene – _their _Shirley? Oh, _could_ it be true? Shirley _was_ spending more and more time in town – but he couldn't be fascinated with someone like Irene! Could he? Rilla's eyes were wild. She couldn't even ask Shirley – he was so laconic and genial, and he hated to talk about himself. But oh, he was so _nice_ that he wouldn't see Irene's barbs!

Rilla caught a glimpse of Una's face in the hall mirror as she whirled – she did not want anyone to see the angry flush that had risen in her cheeks. Una was sitting like a woman made of stone. Her needle had stopped half-way to her cloth and her face was stricken. Rilla felt her heart go out to her – but then Una raised her eyes and saw Rilla's upon her, and composed her features and went on sewing as placidly as before. Rilla turned back 'round, but not before Amy saw the discontented look on her face.

"You've never liked Irene – this shows it. You think she's not good enough for _your_ brother."

Rilla had to bite her tongue – she _must_ be a good hostess. Suppose she bit Amy's head off and said horrible things about Irene – why, it would be all over the Glen in an hour. But as it turned out, Rilla did not have to say anything.

"She's not – she's not half good enough for him," said Una, in a little, calm, cool voice, like a cold wind before a storm. "And that's a fact, Amy MacAllister."

Amy's eyes went from Rilla's to Una's and then to Mary and Betty's. "I forgot how tight you Blythes and Merediths are," she said, grudgingly, as four sets of eyes stared her down. "But I s'pose she's not."

"What a lot of dramatic love affairs there are in your family right now, Rilla," said Minnie Clow, watching the scene. She was still feeling snubbed over Mary Vance's comment – that Rilla Blythe was _always_ letting Mary hang around, when she knew the girl wasn't a _higher_ caliber of person. _This_ was her revenge. "I hear Di's going to marry Carl next month – I never would have thought it, the way she and Jack Wright were carrying on in Avonlea."

This time, Rilla did use her patented cold-pale tone on the petty Minnie.

"How would you know anything that goes on in Avonlea?"

"I know plenty! My mother was a Pye, you know."

"She would be," said Rilla to herself. And then, to Minnie, "Di and Jack are old friends – her mother and my mother have been friends since they were girls, you know. And it's wonderful how love affairs spring up so quickly between people who have known each other for so long as Di and Carl, _I_ think."

"_So_ quickly," said Adella pointedly.

"I hope she loves him – I hope she does," spoke up Jen Vickers in a little, fierce voice. Rilla had never liked her before – she had always thought her silly and cruel – but it was no secret that Jen had been carrying a torch for Carl since he had come home from the war. Her disappointment showed plainly on her face.

"She does." Rilla wanted to assure her – to assure them all – even when she wasn't sure of it herself. "Oh, Miranda, you aren't going already?"

"I'm afraid I must," said Miranda Milgrave, the one little war-bride of the Glen, with real regret. "Joe will be home soon, and I've got to collect little Pryor and put him to bed."

She looked weary but radiant and whispered to Rilla, "You will be, too, soon," and the girls shared a secret, companionable smile.

"It's time I was going, too," said Adella, a bit ungraciously. "We've a dinner party at White Sands tonight."

"_How_ lovely!" echoed Mary Vance, her face blank and her voice devoid of sarcasm. Still, both of the Clow girls looked at her sharply. When they turned away, Mary winked.

"What a lot of kittens with sharp claws!" she whispered. "Remember, the best way to stop a cat-fight is to douse water on them – a good dousing, mind you. Thanks for the eats, Rilla – you cook almost as well as me."

"I hope you come again to our meetings, Mary," said Rilla, feeling an unholy desire to giggle.

"P'raps I will," said Mary. "But only if next time you let me yank their curls. 'Bye, ladies! I'm off!"

"It's nice of you to stay and help me clear things up, but you don't have to," said Rilla, gratefully, to Una, when everyone had gone. "What a day – I feel like I've been run through the wringer."

"I don't mind," said Una, hiding her face in shadow. "Rilla – does – Shirley really _like_ Irene? Like Amy said?"

"I hope not," said Rilla with distaste. And then, "Una – can I – may I – ask you a question?"

"No," said Una – thoughtfully. "No, not that question – and not tonight."


	16. Di Speaks

"I was hoping you'd be home, soon," said a voice, as Rilla climbed the steps of the House of Dreams one warm July evening. She had been pondering many things – one of them being that she was a year older. How quickly the years, that had once seemed to go so sluggishly, passed now! Mary Vance had had a little girl just that day – Rilla's own birthday – Cornelia, after Miss Cornelia, and to be called Nellie. She had looked so contented with the babe in her arms, Mary had – Mary _Vance_! Like a Madonna and child. Miller was beside himself and rushing to and fro as fast as his wooden leg would allow him.

Rilla had held the little bundle herself and her mind had filled with dreams – it wouldn't be too long before she had one of these darling, sweet-smelling bundles. Her eyes were stars and her mind was still roaming the outer-reaches of the universe – she would have tripped over Di if she hadn't spoken again.

"I suppose it's normal for all brides to be nervous," said Di, clasping her white arms around her knees. "Isn't it?"

Rilla sat, suddenly weary. It was as if all of the happiness of the day had evaporated like a mist in the morning sun. Di wore a look that was equal parts hope and agony.

"You haven't spoken to Nan?" she asked, in a low voice.

"No," said Rilla truthfully. "I don't think Nan wants anything to do with us at the moment. I think she is confused and worried about you – like the rest of us. I think she feels betrayed."

"Why should she?" Di looked away. "I know she feels like I was keeping things from her – hiding things from her – but I wasn't. I swear to you, Rilla – I didn't know that there _was_ anything between me and Carl until the moment when he asked me to marry him. Of course I thought we were _chums_ – but it wasn't anything like I expected. When he asked me, something in my soul told me to take it. My soul told me – that if I didn't it would be a mistake. That's love, isn't it?"

"I think you know," said Rilla gently, taking Di's hand in hers. "I think you know – because you loved Jack – and he loved you."

"But he didn't." Two tears spilled over Di's lashes and fell down her flushed, freckled cheeks. "I thought he did – and I loved him – or I thought _I_ did. Uncle Davy was even talking mysteriously about a 'conversation' he had had with Jack. And – he took me for a walk the night before I left. We went down by the Lake of Shining Waters. I could see Green Gables to my left and Orchard Slope to my right. I felt sure he would ask me, then, Rilla – I _knew_ it with all my heart. And Jack _looked_ like he would ask me. But at the moment in which I thought he would, his face grew very cold – he touched that scar, the terrible scar running down the side of his face – and he told me – oh, Rilla, he told me that he had been going to ask me – but that he had just realized he couldn't, after all."

"Oh, _Di_!" Rilla felt like crying herself. How cruel – like a slap in the face when you expect a kiss!

"I turned and I ran away. I could hear Jack calling me. But I didn't stop until I was very far away. Then I came home."

"But he's been writing to you!" Rilla was horrified that it had ended so terribly – that Di had been so tormented – and she hadn't know. None of them had known.

"He wants us to be chums," Di said dully. "His letters were nice, jolly epistles full of 'sound and fury – signifying nothing.' I had to tell him to stop – writing – because it hurt too much, you see. When I had thought – that we had been – _something_ to each other. And then Carl asked me – and I said yes. I don't – feel – the same way for him, but that must mean it's love. Mustn't it? When I felt so differently for Jack, and what we had _wasn't_ true."

"I don't think it works like that, Di," Rilla protested gently. "I think you have been badly hurt, Di – and that it will take some time for you to be able to love again. But there is only one way of loving, you know."

At that moment the lighthouse beam swung around and alighted on the little house. Its brightness seemed to wake Diana from her stupor.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said abruptly. "I only came up to bring you this – for Mary." Di thrust a little white package into Rilla's hands and stood.

"Di – please – won't you stay? We don't have to talk about it. Just come in for a cup of tea."

"No thank you." Di's voice was as hard as granite. "I really must be going – I feel a bit tired tonight. My head – whirls – so. I suppose I have a headache."

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It was not a headache. Di looked flushed as she helped Mother set the table – she complained of chills through dinner – they heard her tossing fitfully in her room all night. At last, when the sun rose, she quieted, and Anne Blythe, wrapping her old rose kimono around her still-slender frame, stole quietly down the hall to check on her girl.

She found Di sitting quietly by the window, her face red and a curious, ominous rattle in her chest. Her red curls were stuck damply to her forehead, and when she saw her mother, she turned.

"I see Walter coming up the lane," she commented, and a strange, icy finger touched Anne Blythe's soul. Di sounded so certain – her eyes were fixed on _something_ – when Di's eyes met her mother's there was a fire in them – burning away – burning itself out. Mrs. Blythe dropped her lamp, and if she had not rushed to Di just then, the hem of it would have been caught in the flickering flame.

"Gilbert!" she cried. "Oh – Gilbert!"

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Ingleside was watchful and silent, and its inhabitants along with it. Susan dared not speak a word. She could not even cook. But no one wanted to eat anything anyway. The doctor said it was flu – real influenza – and his hands had shaken as he made his diagnosis. Then he placed a call to the manse – Carl must not _think _of visiting. He had not been inoculated. And Rilla must not come anywhere near Ingleside even though she had. It was too dangerous. Then the doctor hung up the phone and took the stairs slowly, one at a time, feeling strangely numb. The rest of them looked at each other with worried eyes.

"I can't bear not knowing what's going on!" Rilla almost screamed with exasperation. "They don't think – that Di – will – "

"She won't," said Kenneth firmly, but his mouth tightened and his voice betrayed his words.

Nan crept up to the House of Dreams like a vagabond, at twilight. Rilla had been waiting for her.

"I can't go," she said, and her face was red from crying. "Father won't let me for – for the same reason as you. We hadn't told anyone yet but he suspected and told me I mustn't. I – wish I could go to Di. I – wish I could tell her that I love her."

"Everything that was important yesterday seems so insignificant today," said Rilla, her eyes full of tears. "Yesterday I thought I would die if I didn't know whether Shirley was involved with Irene Howard – and I was worried over Di's wedding – and a hundred other little things. Today there is just one thing – but it seems so insurmountable. If anything happens to Di, Nan, you must remember that she loves you – and she – knows – you love her."

Nan turned to Rilla with wild eyes.

"If anything happens to Di? What could happen to her? You don't mean – die? It can't be as bad as that. Someone would have told me if _that_ could happen. Someone would have told me!"

And Rilla, looking at her frightened face, realized that no one _had_.


	17. Weeping Endureth for a Night

It was life, not death, that came to the quiet little house at the witchingest hour of that night – the hour of the night where lovers wake up from dreaming from each other and mothers look in on their sleeping children with eyes full of hopes. Life did not come in the form of a bolt from the sky, or a winged angel, or a ghost from the past – it came in the form of a heart-weary, electrified young man with his sorrows etched upon his face and a heavy heart. He took residence on the veranda – where he could see the one lighted window that must be _her_ room. Surely the light would not shine out so brightly if anything happened to her. The man on the veranda had seen terrible things in the world – he had the scars to remind him – he had seen things that had made him doubt that there _was_ a God. But at that moment he was fiercely sure there was – and he knew that surely God – any kind of God – could not let anything happen to _her_. He settled himself down to keep watch.

The girl in the sickbed gave a sigh as the clock struck twelve – a sigh of relief, of contentedness. It was as if she knew that he was near! Diana opened her eyes and made a small, low, _glad_ little noise – the doctor and the nurse went to her side. The doctor's fingers touched her brow and reached for a pulse – he stepped back – felt her wrist and nodded. At that nod, Dr. Blythe felt curiously more anxious than he had in days – he felt bone-weary and as if he might cry. How odd that it should hit him now, when his girl was out of danger!

"Di, darling," said Mrs. Blythe, her voice brimming with happiness – no, Anne Blythe was not afraid to let herself be glad, she was not afraid to tempt happiness. "Di, dear one – wake up!"

"Jack," Di breathed, and closed her eyes again with the ghost of a smile on her lips.

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"Jack Wright is asleep on the veranda," said Shirley, at breakfast, in his matter-of-fact, easy way.

"Go outside and tell him to come in for breakfast," Mrs. Blythe instructed her son, as if finding sleeping sons of bosom friends in the yard was an everyday occurrence. But anything was possible on this morning of joy. "And Shirley – tell him that she is going to get well."

It was a happy Jack, his eyes full of feeling and aglow, that met them at the breakfast table. Susan fed him fondly – she remembered him as a scamp of a boy who had visited Ingleside in the old days – but then, Susan would have fed the Kaiser fondly that morning she was so relieved!

"You can't see her – yet," said the doctor gravely in response to Jack's unspoken question. There was no doubt what he wanted – every muscle, every of his senses, seemed poised to sprint up the stairs to the little sick-room. "She is still a very sick girl."

"I've been inoculated," said Jack somberly, showing his scar.

"It doesn't matter – she is not likely to be contagious. She is not well enough to see anyone. It would tire her out and set her back for days."

"I'll wait, then," said Jack, wolfing down the last of Susan's waffles, and heading back out to his post. "I'll wait for as long as it takes."

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On the second day Di was able to sip some broth and Ingleside celebrated. On the third day after the terrible fever had passed she opened her eyes for an hour – and they rejoiced. The fourth day she held Mother's hand and gave a weak laugh, and on the fifth she asked the nurse to prop her up so that she could look out the window.

"Raise the shade," said Mother, her cheeks dimpling.

The nurse did, and the little group of people on the lawn smiled upward. There was Rilla, with a sheaf of daffodils – Di loved daffodils as Wordsworth had. There was Kenneth, grinning – Nan, looking pale and wan but grateful and glad. And behind them all was a dark, brooding figure – a familiar, loving face. He raised his hand and blew a kiss.

"Jack!" breathed Di, falling back on the pillows. "Is it really – can it be?"

"He has been sleeping on the veranda for the past five days," said Susan. "A more stubborn man I do not think I have known. We have offered him the sofa and Rilla has a room for him – "

"But he won't leave his perch," smiled Mother. "Di, I've a note from Carl, if you'd like me to read it."

"Leave it," said Di, a bit ungraciously, it must be admitted, but you must remember that she was still feasting her eyes on a sight she had never expected to see again. "When can I speak with Jack?"

"When you are better," said the doctor staunchly.

The little crowd on the lawn waved for a while longer and when Di, exhausted, leaned back against her pillows, dispersed – all except for one of them, who would not be moved for anything.

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Di got better very quickly after that. She astonished them daily with her progress.

"It won't be long now until you can see her," said Mrs. Blythe to Diana Wright's little son and her heart turned over to see him sit down, hard, on the ground and cover his eyes with his hand at the news.

Rilla found herself really _liking_ Jack – despite his behaviour in Avonlea. She remembered him from childhood as a jolly, rougish chap. Very little of that remained. He was, in a word Rilla remembered from old ladies and romance novels, dashing. His eyes flashed like black fire and he frowned like Mr. Darcy. The scar that ran the length of the left side of his face, over his eye and the corner of his mouth, gave him a dangerous, mysterious air. But he when he spoke of Di his voice grew tender and even Susan admitted that you could not fault his manners.

"I suppose Di has told you everything," he said soberly when Rilla went up to join him for one of their window-meetings. Di was well enough to sit up and wave to them for ten minutes a day.

"She has," admitted Rilla.

"I feel like I must explain to you – I _do_ love her."

"Anyone can see that," Rilla conceded. "Only – why did you tell her that you couldn't – that you wouldn't …"

"This is not my only scar from the war," he said simply, touching the angry red line on his face.

Rilla nodded. She found she understood, in a strange way. It was hard to begin again after so much pain and suffering that could never be erased.

"But I am willing to be selfish," Jack went on, "Because I love her so. Because I need her so. And if she is willing to have me, I am selfish enough to give myself – and all my faults – to her."

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Reverend Meredith married them in the little sick-room as soon as Di was well enough. She wore her white robe and the groom wore the same pair of overalls that he had been wearing when he came to Ingleside – freshly laundered, of course. Susan had seen to that. All the same it was a wonderful affair. Di had a bouquet of daffodils and Jack had threaded a carnation through his torn buttonhole. The room was crowded with people – a very understanding Carl, and Una, Rosemary, Ken and Jerry and the bride's happy mother. Rilla, Nan and Shirley stood up for them were the bridal party. Dr. Blythe found himself strangely full of heart when they recited the text – 'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."

"It was cloudy and the room was dusty and the quilt over Di's legs was faded and there was a crack in the plaster of the ceiling," Rilla wrote in her diary when it was over. "It shouldn't have been at all romantic – but oh, it _was_."


	18. What Will Persis Say?

"Oh, how the Glen is gossiping about _this_!" wrote Rilla in her trusty diary, peevishly blowing a little curl off of her smooth brow. "I went to three places today looking for that new grosgrain ribbon to trim my dress – just because they're getting bigger doesn't mean I can't have _pretty_ dresses! At each store, people stopped talking _very _abruptly when I came in. Of course they are talking about Di – and her hasty wedding to Jack – and her 'jilting' of Carl. Poor Carl! In the three sordid versions of the story I _have_ heard, he has been painted as a philanderer, a cuckold, and a jealous rival, respectively.

Carl _is_ being very tight-lipped about the whole thing, but he had a long, closed-door conversation with Di once she was well enough and when Mother peeked in to bring Di her supper she found them with their arms around each other, having a very glad and companionable cry. Carl stood up for them quite happily at the wedding, and I heard him wish Jack well, so there mustn't be any hard feelings. I almost want to say that there was _relief _in his eyes. Perhaps he has realized that their marriage would have been a mistake as much as Di realized it. They weren't in love – but they have always been good friends, and I am glad they will be able to go _on_ being friends.

As soon as Di is well enough, she and Jack are going to take up residence in Avonlea for oh – _Jack has bought Green Gables_! Mother's eyes go around with shining light in them over _that_. Ever since Uncle Davy announced his move West she has been worried that strangers would take the place. She cannot bear to think of strangers – or worse yet, Pyes – living in her 'ancestral home.' Of course Uncle Davy will not go until next year – so Jack and Di will have to live at Orchard Slope for a while. For now, though, Di is still too weak to be moved, and so they are both at Ingleside, and it is wonderful to have them near.

We were a bit worried about how Father would take the news – he has always been touchy on the subject of Di being far away. But in this age of motor-cars, I suppose sixty miles isn't the great distance it once was. It is much closer than Kingsport, to be sure. And Father has taken to Jack – he has always loved the boy – and, as he said,

'Di could marry the Kaiser if she wanted to – and I'd give my blessing – as long as she was happy and well.'

His one stipulation is that she must wait one year before starting a family of her own – that is about how long it will be before Father thinks that she will recover all her strength. But to look at Di now you'd never think that three weeks ago her life hung in the balance. She is vibrant and happy and laughs louder than the rest of us.

Nan went to her as soon as she was able and shut the door, but Di must have told Nan a great many things and vice versa, for when the door opened they were tear-stained and happy and clasping each other's hands. I like it when our twins are in harmony and not clamor. It is delicious when things work out for the best.

And oh – I have the feeling that things will work out for the best for Carl, too! Shirley tells me that when Jen Vickers heard that he and Di would _not_ be married after all she wept so hard she had to be sent to bed. He had the story from her brother, Joe. It is strange how easily Shirley and I can talk about other people – and yet I cannot get up the courage to ask him about his own goings on with Irene. But that is another journal entry for another time.

Strangely enough, though Carl is fond of Jen, it is not Shirley's news of Jen that heartens him – but rather, I think, the news that _we_ are going to be having a houseguest here at the House of Dreams before long! I wrote Persis of the whole ordeal as soon as it happened – but she never wrote back. I always thought that she and Carl were fond of one another – what will she say about this?"

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"Tell me everything that's been going on," said Persis, almost the moment she stepped over the threshold of the House of Dreams. "I want to know everything that's been going on in this dear place – oh! You've new curtains at the parlour windows! I like those muslin-sprigged ones better, of course, but I am sad to see the old ones go. I used to pull them around me when I sat on the window seat as a girl. You don't still have them, do you?" She looked at Rilla hopefully.

"You aren't planning on hauling those faded drapes across the Atlantic, back to your apartment in Gay Paris, are you, Pers?" Kenneth asked.

"I've decided not to take my apartment for next year," Persis announced. "I'm going to stay here, with you, for a while – if that suits – and go to Mother and Father in the fall." She looked at Rilla pleadingly.

"Of course it 'suits,'" Rilla promised. "This is your home as much as it is ours, Persis, dear."

"I love you for saying that," beamed Persis, throwing her hat in the air – a delectable sleek ivory cloche. "Oh – I've missed this place. And _you_. Let me just change for dinner – I'm positively grungy from the train ride – and I'll be back for a good gossip!"

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Changing for dinner to anyone else would have meant washing hands and doffing aprons – but to Persis it mean changing dress and shoes – even hair! When she came back downstairs with her head held high, like a queen, she was resplendent in a backless blue silk – a deep, living blue – the blue of the sky before twilight and the sea at morning. Her shoes were delightful little confections of black patent leather and her bobbed, golden hair had been brushed and was held back with a little matching blue band. Rilla felt positively frumpy in her old shirtwaist until Persis said, longingly,

"You look so cool and fresh and your print. My clothes aren't suitable for anything – they don't _carry_ muslin in the French shops anymore – I _must_ go down to the dressmakers straightaway tomorrow and get some made! And boots! I need boots – for I plan on going for a Rainbow Valley ramble first thing. You look like a poem, Rilla, by that window – you are a much a part of this house as the very walls. Stay that way – I'm going to get my camera to snap you up."

Rilla posed, and then they had a long, languorous dinner at the wide pine table.

Persis cleared her plate and then boldly propped her feet up on the table as Kenneth cleared it.

"I've always _wanted_ to do that," she giggled. "I thought it would be the perfect cap on a good meal – you cook better than Miss Cornelia, Rilla, but if you tell her that I'll commit murder on you!"

"You duck," Rilla pronounced. "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad we have this evening to ourselves," said Persis. "My first day in the Glen I feel like an outsider – by the second I have forgotten any other place exists on earth. Can we have that gossip you promised me now, Rilla?"

"Only if you tell me everything that's going on with you!"

"I've been disappointed in love," said Persis dramatically. "I'm sure you've heard the public version by now. Mother delights in my narrow escape. She didn't think a writer was good enough at all for me – though Father is a writer himself!"

"I think your father is a writer of a very different sort," said Rilla, drawing on the knowledge she had of Persis's beau.

"Well, Scott's latest book will make him a success," Persis admitted. "Though he did tend to indulge a bit at times. It's probably what made him go back to that Zelda – I would have loved him no matter how popular he was. But I'm not as weepy about it as I was at first. When I was with Scott I loved him – he was _so_ glamorous – but every time I went away I couldn't remember what it was I saw in him. I lost my head – I was relieved beyond relief when he finally called it off, though I did carry on for a few days because I thought I was expected to. That's Paris for you – I've had enough of Paris. I think I'll settle for the Island – and an Island man – in the end."

"Have you any in mind?" Rilla dimpled.

"No – now that Di has gone and snatched the only man I thought I could ever really love," answered Persis coolly.

Rilla stared open-mouthed like a fish. Persis and _Jack_? She didn't even think Persis had _known_ Jack Wright all that well! They had all spent several companionable summers together as children – many years ago – but _could_ childhood infatuation have translated into love?

Then Rilla remembered how her five-year-old heart had thumped whenever nine-year-old Ken Ford had come into view. Poor Persis – ! Rilla put her hand on her shoulder.

"I had no idea," she said.

"Didn't you? I thought the world could tell. I thought – he would – speak the last time I saw him, but he didn't. He's always been shy, I suppose."

Jack – shy? Taciturn he was, but Rilla would not have said _shy_. And had Persis seen Jack so recently? He hadn't visited. Had she gone to Avonlea? Persis had friends scattered all over the globe and it was no surprise if she had jaunted off to some mysterious get-together in that part of the world without telling anyone.

"I saw him last year, of course. When I was on the island for Mary's wedding," Persis clarified. "Oh, _don't_ look at me pityingly. I can't stand it! I'll 'take a brace,' as Susan is always telling us to do and be my merry self. I can do it, you know. I should have been an actress. I will do splendidly – and no one will know – and you won't tell?"

Rilla promised with a kiss. "All the same," she said somberly. "I hope this won't spoil your visit – or your friendship with Di."

"Nothing could spoil a visit to you." Persis returned Rilla's kiss. "And I can't hate Di, no matter how hard I try. And I _have_ tried. I can't tell you the nights I sat up thinking of how she had _him_ and I didn't. But all the same – I'd prefer to stick to Four Winds instead of going up to Ingleside. I don't – think – I could keep my smile pasted on for long – when _he_ has turned his smile on her."

"What a terrible mess of things!" Rilla told her diary after Persis had gone up to bed.


	19. Facing the Lions

"I suppose we must go to Ingleside tonight," said Persis, gloomily, after she had been in Four Winds for a week. "I've been putting it off and putting it off – someone is bound to become suspicious if I _don't_ go. I don't want to offend Aunt Anne – or Susan. She called up this morning and told me that we simply _must _come over for supper, to meet Di and her husband – and see all the old folks. And when Susan says 'must'…"

"Do you want to go?" Rilla asked.

"No," said Persis, blunt as could be. "To think that _I _should be dreading going to _Ingleside_! No, I'd prefer not to go – to see _them _together! But I've done a great many things in this world that I would have preferred _not_ to. One more won't kill me."

Rilla thought she might be wrong. Persis was pale, and the effort it took her to climb the stairs to her room was alarming. Two sudden spots of color flared as Persis caught her looking.

"Don't stare so! I'm perfectly fine – just going to change for dinner. I've spent too much time alone with my own thoughts – it's been a quiet week. I'll be back in a jiff."

She was right about that. It had been a quiet week, with Nan and Jerry gone to stay with the minister and his wife in Blair Water – Shirley away on a mysterious errand. Rilla had heard Olive Kirk – no, Olive Drew, now – tell someone that Shirley Blythe was _dreadfully_ close to proposing to Irene! It couldn't be true and if it was – well, when was he planning on telling them all? When Irene had presented them with their first child? Just _thinking_ about Irene being part of the family made her feel slightly sick. Rilla vowed to confront him as soon as he was back.

Rilla wished for a moment that Una was there. She might be some help to the heart-wounded girl. Una had a habit of listening patiently and then saying nothing, but looking everything, which made one feel very much better indeed. But Carl had been away in Halifax, doing research on his latest paper, 'Beetles of the Maritimes,' and he had taken Una with him. Una did not like beetles but she _did_ like Carl, and she was always low this time of year, when the September maples began to turn. That compounded with the fact that Little Bruce had just gone back to Redmond for the fall semester – well, they had thought it best that Una have a small visit elsewhere, to cheer her spirits. They were back today and when Rilla had seen Una at church she had looked fresh and rested. Perhaps the visit had done her good.

Rilla had a momentary urge to ring over to the manse and beg Carl to come have his supper with them. Una was a great listener – but Carl was the one people looked to to cheer them up. He and Persis had always laughed together, even if they _hadn't_ liked each other like _that_ after all.

"Don't eye the telephone," said Persis. "It always makes people call when I do that – and nine-tenths of the time it's someone I'd rather _die_ than talk to. But of course, one couldn't be rude. Unless it's Mary Vance calling, as she did yesterday. I was so dismayed to hear her voice that I hung right up! And then felt guilty and called back and pretended there had been a disconnection – Rilla, she talked my ear off for an hour, nearly!"

Persis had splashed water on her face and must have put a touch of rouge on her cheeks because she was looking brighter. She was certainly making an effort. Rilla looked enviously at her own lumpy personage and then at Persis's small, willowy figure. She had a dress of emerald satin and a head-band with a matching feather. Her stockings had been rolled down to show powdered knees. Rilla thought that on anyone else it would look ridiculous, but Persis looked as at home in the foyer of the House of Dreams as she would on the streets of Paris. She impulsively gave her a kiss.

"You look splendid, darling."

"Thanks – thanks. I mean to be on my best this evening – I _don't_ hate Di – I'm glad for her – but I mean to show him what he's missed. Kenneth! Get your nose out of the paper – we're going."

"You're awfully cheerful," murmured Rilla, as they walked cross-lots to the Glen.

"I would have made a wonderful Christian in the Roman era," whispered Persis back, "Pasting a smile on my face as I went to face my lions."

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Anne Blythe saw the three of them come up the lane and went down to the gate to meet them.

"Persis!" she cried. "I almost didn't recognize you coming! You've grown more beautiful in the time since I've seen you. I was out putting my roses to bed – what's left of them – and lamenting the fact that they don't last longer. It would be such a _comfort_ to have roses in the cooler months – but what need have we of roses now that you are here? _You _are a rose."

"And you're a lily of the valley, all pure and white," said Persis with some of her old spirit, giving "Aunt Anne" a fierce hug around the waist.

"Let's go in," Mrs. Blythe laughed, giving kisses to Rilla and Ken. "Di is – well, _di-ing_ to see you and show off her new husband to you."

"I thought we might sit out and watch for the first star," said Persis lamely, faltering at the first step. "Like we used to, when I was a girl? Before going in?"

"We might have done just that," smiled Mrs. Blythe, "Only you have come a bit late. The first star is there, over the top of that white birch. Doesn't she look like a young girl fixing jewels in her hair? I was out looking for it myself – I always do – even though I am nothing close to being a girl – at least, in body."

"Maybe we should wait until Father comes home," said Rilla.

"But he is home, dear one." Her mother dimpled. "Safe and sound at home, reading the paper and hungry as a bear. That's a pleasant surprise, isn't it?"

Rilla saw Persis blanch. They could not delay it any longer.

"I won't be a coward," she murmured, causing confusion to two-thirds of the little group of onlookers. She placed one slippered foot on the first step – then the door opened. Persis stepped back.

Di, pale and weak, but beaming, stepped out to greet them, supported on one side by Jack.

"If the mountain will not go to Diana…" she laughed, and reached out for Persis.

But Persis had fled back to Rilla's side.

"Who on earth is that with Di?" she wanted to know.

"Persis? Are you well? That's Jack."

"Jack who?"

"Jack Wright," said the man by that name, offering his hand. "Di's husband, you know. I didn't expect you to remember me – it's been ages since we played together – "

Persis waved his hand away.

"But where," she asked, eyes ablaze with – _something_, "Is Carl?"

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They all looked at the flaming Persis for a moment and then Rilla smacked her hand to her forehead in realization.

"Persis," she asked, "Didn't you – get – my letter?"

"Yes," said Persis. "I got a letter from you telling me that Di was getting married – to Carl Meredith – and another telling me that she was ill. Two letters."

"Three!" Rilla breathed. "Oh, it must have gotten to your Paris apartment after you had already left! Di's married to _Jack_ – It's a long story. I wrote a wonderful account of it to you – it's a shame that you didn't get to read it! "

Persis flung herself to the ground and burst into tears.

"Do you mean," she sobbed, "That Di isn't married to Carl – my Carl?"

"She isn't," said Di weakly.

"She'd better _not_ be," said Jack.

"Do you mean," Persis cried, "That I have been tearing myself to bits this past month – trying to mend my broken heart and hating you – yes, I did, Di! _Hating_ you for holding him – when you don't? When Carl – is – free?"

"Yes," said Rilla.

"Oh!" said Kenneth, as if he had figured something out. And then he laughed crazily.

"_Pardon_ me?" asked Persis coldly. "What is so funny, Ken?"

Rilla poked him with her elbow, but Kenneth would not stop laughed.

"You and _Carl_ – I knew it. What a fuss you made over Fitzgerald! You've always loved to be dramatic."

"I do not!" vowed Persis dramatically.

Ken wiped his eyes. "What a mess! Go to him, Persis."

"What?"

"Go to him." Ken repeated. "You might as well tell him – because _this_ is going to get around."

"Aunt Anne – "

"We'll keep your supper waiting," said Mrs. Blythe, eyes aglow. "Now do as your brother says, Persis – go!"

She was off like a shot then, and they all watched her take the fence in her ridiculous Parisian heels, the feather in her band bobbing as she went. When she was safely out of sight they all clutched their sides and laughed as hard as Ken had.

Susan called them in for supper quite matter-of-factly. So there were five people laughing like loons in the front yard? So what? She had seen it all at Ingleside.

"Poor Jen Vickers!" Rilla gasped, when she had gotten her breath.

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Thanks for the reviews! I'm glad so many of you are liking this story, and everyone who thought Persis hadn't gotten Rilla's final letter is right!

Starcrab: Rilla will have her baby soon enough!

Gufa: I don't know if I will incorporate the changes into my Di story. I basically put them in this one because the spirit moved me to – I like the Di story as a stand-alone and I'm too lazy to rewrite it.

Miri: I'll try to incorporate some Lois. I like having a Lois, too! I've always thought that was a pretty name though it has a reputation for being dowdy and I wanted to incorporate it.

Annecordelia: this is definitely not the end!


	20. All the Time in the World

Rilla took herself over to Ingleside one night when Kenneth was working late and Persis was out trysting with Carl. Everything had returned to its normal, peaceful pace now that all romantic entanglements had been sorted out – things might even be considered dull. That is, if you were a person like Irene Howard, who thought that things _were_ dull whenever there wasn't a fight or some sort of dramatic situation to gossip about!

Rilla, in fact, did not think the restored harmony a bit dull – she would have been happy to have the quiet evening all to herself, putting things to rights in her kitchen and starching the collars of Ken's shirts – with perhaps a moonlit stroll through the garden. But she had a very specific errand to run at Ingleside that could not be put off. Shirley was back from wherever he'd been.

Rilla met him on the verandah and sat down beside him on the hammock which gave an ominous creak. Shirley laughed.

"Look at you – you shan't be taking many more moonlit walks down the road to Ingleside for a while, I predict. Rilla, do you remember what Father told Mrs. Drew when she was expecting her fifth, when he had first become a doctor? 'Your time is at hand.'"

"Are you going to marry Irene Howard, Shirley?" Rilla asked him.

If Shirley was taken aback he did not show it. It was almost as if he was expecting the question.

"No, I'm not," he said honestly. "It's a silly rumour, nothing more."

"How does a rumour like that get started?" Rilla asked him. Her heart wanted to beat with relief but something in Shirley's face told her to keep her feelings checked. He looked as if he had something important to say.

"I suppose because I've been going around with her," Shirley said, matter-of-factly, and Rilla's cheeks burst into flame. So it was true – at least that part of it! "But I'm not thinking a bit about marrying her, believe you me."

"How could you, Shirley?" Rilla chided him, disappointed. "You know what Irene is like – she's spiteful and hateful and, oh – _she_ is not of the race that knows Joseph."

Shirley shrugged.

"It's something to do," he said. "Irene chatters on and on, you know. She takes your mind off things."

Rilla wondered what 'things' Shirley needed to be distracted from.

"And she might not be nice and race-of-Josephy," he went on, "But not every girl can be like Una. She is dear, isn't she? Perfectly – utterly – the definition of a darling."

"Shirley," Rilla's voice held a queer catch. "Have you fallen in love with Una Meredith?"

"No – haven't fallen in love with her – have always been in love with her, I think." Shirley gave the answer up far more easily than Rilla would have imagined.

"Do – you – think she feels the same?" she asked him, a sinking feeling in her heart, knowing full well the answer.

"I don't know," said Shirley, "And anyway, it doesn't matter. She _will_, because she must, Rilla. Or else I – or else I – well, insert romantic consequence here."

He tried to laugh and Rilla's heart beat painfully again. She wanted so badly to tell Shirley what she knew – or thought she knew – of Una. And – Walter. How long had it been since she had thought of Walter – really thought of him? Rilla felt almost ashamed for forgetting him for so long. Well, not forgetting him – he was always someplace at the back of her mind – but not remembering him fully. She remembered now – oh, she remembered him! His dreamy look – his poetry – the way he had kissed Una when he had left them for ever – the way Una had looked when she read his dear last letter. The way she still looked when anyone said his name. But then – there was the way Una looked when Shirley's name was linked with Irene's. Stricken – stricken to the core.

"It is not my place," Rilla murmured. And it _wasn't_. Besides, she knew nothing for sure. Una had never – said – not for sure. And even if she _could _tell Shirley – would she? No – it would be too horrible to see that hopeful look slip from his face.

"I would like nothing better than for you to be with Una," Rilla said finally, taking Shirley's brown hand in hers. It was the truth and so it was all she had to say. Shirley need not know that Rilla knew the chances of it happening – were slim. "But oh!" she tried to laugh, to insert some lightheartedness into the situation. "Carousing with Irene Howard is not the way to win her heart!"

"I wouldn't call it carousing," Shirley admitted. "Just a few dances, here and there. I haven't seen Irene in weeks."

"Weeks, Shirley? But Olive Kirk said – !"

"What did Olive Kirk say?"

"That you had gone into town to buy a ring for Irene," Rilla disclosed, feeling foolish. Shirley was grinning – Shirley was _Shirley_ – she _must_ have known that he would never marry someone like Irene!

"Not so," said Shirley. "I wasn't even in Charlottetown – I took a drive up to Kingsport and stopped by the college. Wanted to see if they'd let me come back and finish my B.A. after – everything."

"And will they? Let you come back?"

"They will – for the spring semester. I'm going to get be the oldest sophomore in the history of Redmond college, I think."

"It's funny," Rilla tried to clasp her hands around her knees and failed, with a grimace. "I always imagined you would be a farmer – or something _agricultural_. Mother says you have the same hands as Uncle Matthew – strong, capable, farmer's hands. What are you going to study?"

"Mathematics," said Shirley. "There's got to be a way that everything fits together, Rilla, and I think mathematics is the closest thing to an answer. It's a kind of – religion. I always felt that way in school – when I solved an equation I had a feeling of beauty, as if I was one step closer to God. I feel called to study it. Though I wouldn't mind having that farm you talked of – if I could have a little raven-haired wife to go in it."

A light came on, suddenly, on the manse hill – a beacon star. Rilla knew that it was Una's room. She wondered if Shirley knew that, too – she wondered if he came out to the verandah every night to watch for it.

"Una is going to Redmond in the spring as well," Shirley said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"To finally get her Domestic Science certificate?" Rilla asked. With her eyes she asked a different question.

"Yes – and don't look at me so. I'm not going because of her. Though it will be nice to have her near."

"I've sat out too long in the damp." Rilla said suddenly. She did not stand suddenly – Shirley had to help her to her feet. Rilla did not let him go right away.

"Shirley," her voice trembled. "I wanted to tell you – I want to say – "

"Yes?"

"Thank you for telling me your secret," she said in a rush. "I was always so close to Walter – you know – and Jem is so much older – but I'm sorry that we – we love each other of course – but I'm sorry that we are not closer. I'm sorry you had to wait to tell your secret to me."

"We didn't have a lot of time together as grown-ups," said Shirley. "I was at school – then the war happened. But we will make up for lost time." His eyes crinkled like the doctor's when he smiled.

"It's strange to think of us being grownups, isn't it?" Rilla shivered – it was awfully early to be getting this cold. How eerie the moon was, so yellow and large, with that peaked fir like a witch's cap before it! Someone had carved a jack-o'-lantern and put it on the fencepost where it gave a goblin glow. "So strange – grownups are people like our parents."

"It is – but that's what we are, with you and Jem and Nan getting ready to be parents yourselves. I – I'm jealous of you. Not envious – but I've a little jealous dream of having little, darling kidlets of my own. One day, perhaps. And in the meantime, I'll spoil yours rotten."

"There is plenty of time for you, Shirley," said Rilla earnestly. It was not until she was safely back at the House of Dreams that she remembered that she had said those words a time before – to Una.

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A/N: Rilla has a similar conversation with Una at the end of chapter 4, A War Baby and No Soup Tureen.


	21. Good News

On the first day of December, Ingleside woke up to an early snowfall – and a telegram. A telegram had once been a terrible thing to receive – the folks at Ingleside had dreaded them – but now that the war was over they had learned again to expect good news. And they had all been expecting this telegram for some time – and the news it heralded.

"It is from Jem!" cried Mrs. Blythe. "Oh, read it, Gilbert, please!"

The message was:

BABY BOY BLYTHE BORN LAST PM STOP MOTHER AND BABY WELL

LETTER TO FOLLOW STOP JAMES BLYTHE

"Oh, if I only had wings!" cried the proud grandmother. "My imagination shall simply torment me without end until I see him! Do you think he will look like Little Jem, Gilbert? Oh, do you think he has red hair?"

"I hope so," twinkled the doctor – proud grandfather that he was.

Anne's imagination did not have to torment her for long. The promised letter arrived in two weeks, and with it, a photograph. The house was full to bursting with Blythes and Merediths and well-wishers from the Glen and beyond. By the time the letter had been in the house for a day it was nearly read to pieces!

"Faith's mouth," said John Meredith dreamily, looking over the picture. And unless he was mistaken there was something about this little boy's chin that reminded him of his lost Cecilia. How wonderful that she could live again in this little boy when she herself had been gone for so long!

"He has Jem's nose – _my _nose," said Anne Blythe, brimming with happiness. "Oh, I _knew_ that nose would serve me well!"

"And Jem's ears, as well," was Susan's verdict. "And that is all that matters, Mrs. Dr. dear, for noses and all else have been known to change but ears never do."

"I think he looks like Walter," said Rilla, when she saw the photo. "He is fair, like Faith, but his eyes – there is something about the shape and the dreaminess of them. Jem writes that they are blue now, but he thinks they will be gray in the end."

That was not all Jem wrote.

"He is a good baby – he rarely ever cries. Faith and I expected him to be loud and naughty like us but he is quite contented to be quiet and simply take in everything around him. He wasn't an hour old before he held up his head and looked at me, and Mother – Dad – I felt that I _knew_ him – had always known him – for once in my life I went weak at the knees. He's smart, too – always examining his fingers and toes and everything he sees. I tell you, I've never been prouder of anything as much as I am of Little Walt.

"Is that what they're calling him?" asked Rosemary Meredith eagerly.

"Yes, that's what we're calling him – Walter Blythe," the doctor read on. "It's a name that worked well for us before, didn't it? Tried and true is the best, I say. Faith wanted to name him Jonas for a moment. 'Who's Jonas?' I asked her.

"But we compromised, and we've tacked it on as his middle. Walter Jonas Blythe – I think it will wear well but there's no telling for sure until Susan makes her pronouncement. Our Hawaiian friends love him almost as much as we do and have taken to calling him 'Walaka' – that's Walter in their language. The bring gifts to our doorstep like the magi brought to the manger – they can barely afford to bring them but they do, and we dare not refuse them. The natives have never seen anything like our boy, with his blond hair and blue eyes. There is a legend that a baby with hair like the sun will be blessed by the gods – and I believe it. There is something in store for this young man-child of mine – something great. I am sure of it with a certainty that awes me.

"Tell Rilla to have her baby soon and to make it a boy, too so that he and Wally can be friends as well as cousins. Tell her I'm sorry we beat her to the punch again but we wanted to make sure parenthood was all it was cracked up to be. It is."

"And he promises to send photos of the christening," finished Mrs. Blythe – _Grandmother _Blythe.

At this Susan gave a sniff. She was still thinking of Jem's use of the plural when talking about deities, and was not entirely sure that a christening on an island of heathens would even be a proper christening. The doctor seemed to know what that sniff meant and his ever-present dimple deepened.

"The missionaries at Jem's hospital are Presbyterians, Susan," he said mock-seriously.

"Of a sort," said Susan without batting an eyelash.

"This calls for a celebration," said the Rev. Meredith, raising his glass. "To Walter Jonas Blythe, born half a world away – the first child of a new generation of Blythes and Merediths – and a new generation that will change the world. To him – and all of those children who will be!"

"To Walter," said Mrs. Blythe, after pressing her lips together in a smile of remberance. "May he live a long life and see all of his dreams come true."

"To Walter!" echoed Shirley.

"To Walter!" The doctor and Rosemary raised their glasses, and even Susan chimed in with their cheer.

"To Walter," repeated Rilla. "Oh – how I wish he was _here._"


	22. God Rest Ye Merry

"This is our first Christmas season together and our last with just the two of us," Kenneth remarked in passing one icy-bright December evening some days before that aforementioned holy night. "I think we should spend it wisely, Rilla-my-Rilla – stretching out before this merry little hearth – eating all sorts of wonderful things – and giving each other kisses for no particular reason. Those are the best kinds of kisses."

"You needn't worry about things to eat," said Rilla. "Susan has been cooking for a week – I haven't been able. She is bringing heaps of goodies up to us by the day – it was her mince pie we had at supper. But oh – Kenneth – we mustn't kiss for no particular reason when Susan is around – she thinks there must _always_ be a reason for kissing. It would quite scandalize her if we hadn't one! Who is that at the door? No – I'll get it – it's getting harder and harder for me to get up but I should, anyway. I'm afraid I'm getting quite toasty on my right side – but my left is chilly. Betty Mead! You dear! Come in – come in. Have you been over at Amy MacAllister's Christmas party?"

"I have," said Betty, coming in and carefully wiping her muddy boots. She proffered a basket. "Amy's sent me home with some of her cream puffs to give to you. I _know_ you don't like them. So does Amy. I tried to get her to let me take some of her gooseberry tarts instead – those are decent, at least – but she wouldn't budge. What a nasty puss she is! Rilla – I'm going to be terribly rude and ask if I might steal a corner of your hearth for the night. It's a long, icy walk to the Glen and my little kid boots aren't fit for the long haul. Please mayn't I stay?"

"Of course you may," laughed Rilla. "And Amy MacAllister's cream puffs _are_ terrible – but look at me, devouring them! I eat everything and anything now a days – I'm sure once Baby gets here I'll be fat as an elephant. Oh – Betty – Cousin Sophia told me today she would take it as a personal affront if I did not name the baby 'Clementina.' It is a name she has always admired but 'never got the chance to use.'"

"I'm quite partial to Elizabeth," said Betty, taking one of the cream puffs herself.

"And Shirley thinks 'Shirley' is a fine name – and Jem has written to extol the virtues of 'James' – and Persis has advised me that there is no nicer name than one that begins with 'P' and ends with 'S'. 'Phyllis?' I asked. 'Not on your life!' she roared."

"Where is Persis tonight?" Betty finished her cream puff and made a face, but still reached for another.

"She's probably traipsing round with Carl, in one of her indecent get-ups," said Ken grimly, but with a dimple in his cheek.

"Oh!" Betty swatted him. "Don't even say it! Rilla, what an old fuddy-duddy your man's turned into. What I would give to have that red satin Persis wore to the church social last week. It would have been so Christmassy for tonight. But I had to make do with this frumpy blue crepe."

"You look like the Snow Queen, tall and aloof and regal," said Rilla, appreciating the picture that the blonde Betty made before the fire. "The red would suit you all wrong, Betty dear – besides, I bet the party was awash with girls in red and greens – you stand out in your ice blue. Tell me – did Amy wear that terrible green chiffon? Doesn't she know that when she wears it we can see her – see her – ahem –"

"Underpants?" Ken finished gravely.

"What about Adella Clow?" Rilla studiously ignored him. "She always is upstaged by Minnie – the frightful concoctions of fashion that girl wears! And it isn't very nice of her. I'm glad Nan and Di don't try to upstage _me_."

"They couldn't if they tried," said Betty loyally – and truthfully. Rilla looked more lovely and rosy than ever. "Besides – Nan will be singing the same tune before long. My, you Blythe girls are just awash in new arrivals lately – or will be."

"Yes – it's almost all we talk about. Which is why I'd rather have a good gossip-fest about the party. Was Olive Kirk there? Can you believe that she's going to be a _Drew_? 'Like follows like,' Susan said when she heard, but Miss Cornelia disagreed – the Kirks _were_ a respectable family – once. And did you taste the cranberry relish? Susan is convinced that Trina MacAllister stole her recipe the last time Ingleside hosted the Ladies' Aid. She and Mother caught her poking round in the kitchen, looking for a _tea towel_. Tea towel indeed!"

"I can see we're settling in for a _very_ good gossip-fest," interrupted Kenneth, standing and stretching his long, lean body. "In which case I must go 'way – you girls are so sharp-tongued that it makes me feel terribly wicked to be around you. Rilla-mine, send me off with a kiss. There – and what a kiss!"

"What was that for?" asked Betty, mischievously.

"No particular reason," glowed Rilla.

"You and Ken make it look positively easy." Betty was appreciative. "I wish you could have seen poor Amy with her new beau – I mean, boy-friend. I'm so Victorian, Rilla, aren't I? She had his arm in a vise-like grip all night. Her knuckles were white, and Amy's face fell every time he so much as _smiled_ at another girl. I asked him to dance with me – twice – just to get her goat."

"Betty! You didn't!"

"Did," replied Betty laconically. "And I was glad, for it was the first time he smiled all evening. The other dour face was Jen Vickers' – every time the door opened, she looked up hopefully. I think she was expecting it to be Carl – with Persis on his arm. When it wasn't she looked relieved and dejected at once. I would have been relieved, too, if I were her – _how_ many times have I told Jen not to wear yellow? It does absolutely _nothing_ for her complexion. I wouldn't have wanted the man I liked to see me looking so sallow."

Rilla gave a guilty peal. "Poor Jen! I feel nasty laughing about it – it's very Irene Howardish of me. Speaking of which -- did Irene deign to come to the party, Betty? Amy was positively mortified that she wouldn't come after all. Irene has that girl on a string."

"Yes, Irene was there – and she made cutting jabs at all and sundry. Even _you_ were not exempt – Irene inquired very solicitously of your health and then remarked that you'd always been _matronly_. 'Rilla dear was always dripping with kidlets in the old days,' she said. 'There was only Jims, her war baby,' said I. 'Some people are in such a hurry to get so old and boring,' said Irene very wittily – _she_ thought. 'And some people don't have to hurry to get there,' replied I! I wouldn't pay her the least bit of mind – Irene is almost twenty-three, you know, and shows no signs of having a happy family of her own any time soon."

"I thought she was going around with Carter Flagg's nephew – the one from Charlottetown?"

"So did Irene," said Betty authoritatively. "Only he found someone he liked better, I suppose. Vincent Flagg is going to marry Miss Myra Lockley, of Halifax, Nova Scotia, in March. And Irene didn't even see it coming."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes! Of course Irene tries to pretend she broke it off with _him_, but no one quite believes her. I found out the truth because Mother is one of the Lockleys and we've been invited to the shindig."

"Oh, Betty – you wouldn't spread it around, would you?"

"No – but Irene knows that I know and she hates me even worse for it. I didn't know that you were such a champion of Irene Howard, Rilla!"

Something in Rilla's heart twisted painfully. "I'm not – only think how horrible it must be. If she loved him – " But then a cold wave broke over Rilla's sympathy. No, she could not feel sorry for Irene. Irene had once said things – horrible things, hurtful things – about Walter. Just thinking of them now, years later, shook Rilla to the core. She would not feel sorry for Irene!

"Well, I've eaten the last cream puff and the clock's struck eleven," Betty yawned. "I suppose Kenneth will give me a lambasting if I keep you up too late – we'd better turn in. Show me to my bedchamber, milady?"

"Right this way," laughed Rilla. "I'm not tired yet, but you are. And you needn't worry, for I've the 'sparest of spare rooms' for you, as Mother would say."

Betty fell quickly asleep, and Kenneth had already dozed off in his arm-chair, the _Glen Notes_ and a red pencil in his hand. How proud he had been to see his by-line for the first time – on the front page! And how smart and clever he was – he had already caught a half dozen mistakes that the printers had missed. It would be grand if they would give him a position when his apprenticeship was up! Rilla knew he was hoping for it, but he dared say nothing about it, in case he was disappointed. She covered him with an old knitted cotton-warp quilt, courtesy of a certain Mrs. Rachel Lynde of Avonlea – shabby and faded, but still warm and smelling of the sprigs of lavender that Mother had tucked in with it. Persis would be coming up the lane, soon, but would probably sit on the porch with Carl and talk for another half-hour, despite the cold. But then, Rilla knew from experience, trysting lovers welcomed the cold. It gave one a nice excuse to throw his arms around the other – a perfect invitation for a lady to tuck her chin into her man's chest. She would leave a welcoming lantern out for them, and go upstairs to put a warm gin-bottle in the bottom of Persis's bed so it would be toasty for her.

Next to Persis's room and the spare room where Betty slept was a dark little chamber, prim and neat and full of dreams, and Rilla put her hand on the door and smiled. Irene was right – at that moment Rilla felt positively matronly. But what a wonderful feeling it was – to have a silent, watchful, beloved little house full of people that you loved – a lantern lighting the way for weary travelers – and a little room, all ready for when the ship o' dreams would come to anchor in the harbour. Lucky Rilla – and _poor_ Irene. Yes, Rilla _would_ feel sorry for Irene – Irene who had none of these things.

There was a little smoky glass in the hall that had been hanging in its place since the schoolmaster had hung it there to reflect his bride. Rilla could see herself in it now. It really was a dear mirror – it made everyone who peered into it look more lovely. But even so, Rilla could see that there were some changes that had come over her. Her hands, once smooth and lily-white, were chapped, at times, from the work she loved to do – her hair had been pushed into a hasty knot, with a few tendrils falling on either side – and there was no denying it – she was round as a balloon! But still, her face was more serene and contented than it had been. Her eyes were merry and knowing.

"You're not Rilla of Ingleside any longer," she told herself. "You haven't been for some time! Rilla of Ingleside was silly and flighty and vain, but Rilla of the House of Dreams is quieter, and dreamier – and more contented. But is she 'matronly?'" Rilla appraised her mirror-self for a long moment. "No – too much of my old vanity remains for that!"

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A/N: A lot of people have asked when Rilla is going to have her baby – soon! I didn't want it to come too quickly on the heels of little Walter's birth. Plus, I wanted to have a chapter with Betty. I noticed that besides her family and the Merediths, and Miss Oliver, Rilla doesn't have a lot of friends – and definitely not a bosom friend, like Diana Barry. I wanted she and Betty to be closer.

(The Jonas in Walter Jonas Blythe means nothing – just a name that came to me on a whim. I think it sounds pretty good, though.)

I'm glad so many of you are enjoying this story. Keep the reviews coming? Please?


	23. Child of Morning

There is an old tradition that children who should be abed spy out of their windows on Christmas Eve, hoping to see St. Nick and his sleigh as it streaks across the midnight sky. Their ears are pricked to hear the jingle of tiny bells – hundreds of bells, an aery music from on high. Perhaps some even glance out in hopes of seeing something like the star of Bethlehem that shone so brightly above a sleepy land so long ago. Who knows what they see, but we know that they watch.

If any one had been looking toward the little house at the corner of the Four Winds Road, near the light, they would have seen one light shining out as bright as any star. If they had not been preoccupied with looking for more magical things, perhaps they would have seen one snow-white, tired stork as he made his way over the harbour. On any other night they would have noticed the great white bird, for storks are rare in the Glen and its environs, especially on Christmas night. But all the window-spiers in the Glen were looking for something quite different in the sky on that night, so the stork was able to alight on the ridgepole of the House of Dreams quietly and unnoticed.

It was the hour just before morning, and they sky was still a swath of black velvet one which stars like icy diamonds lay. The stork remembered this place – it was a good place to leave his precious cargo. Yes – he felt sure that this was the place he was meant to be. He left his bundle and flew off, just as the first streaks of pink dawn were beginning to touch the eastern horizon. And inside the little house, Kenneth Ford made an early-morning call up to Ingleside.

"He is here, my little man!" wrote Rilla, in her diary, as soon as she was able. This, oh, _this_ was the kind of moment that was worth remembering above all others. "Our little boy has arrived – I felt like I knew him from the dawn of time the moment that our eyes met. I am dreadfully glad he _is _a boy, and has escaped the fate of 'Clementina!' He is tiny and has a smooth brown skin and great hazel eyes. His nose is absolutely Kenneth's, and his ears – well, even Susan cannot fault his ears. And his hair is – "

"Red!" shrieked the dismayed grandmother when she saw it. "Oh, wee kidlet, I sincerely apologize. That hair is my doing. It might grow darker when he is older, mightn't it, Gilbert?"

"I hope not," said the doctor, smiling as though he would burst. "Besides, our little grandson might grow up considerably less vain than you, Anne. He probably won't mind his red hair."

"Well, red hair isn't as terrible as it once was," admitted his wife, as she cradled the precious bundle to her breast. "And as long as no one calls our baby 'carrots' –" with a saucy glance at the doctor.

"What _do_ you plan on calling him, Rilla, Ken?" Persis put out a beringed finger and laughed when the baby grabbed hold of it with his brown paw. "We cannot call him 'him' or 'Baby' his whole life."

Rilla and Kenneth exchanged a glance.

"He is Gilbert John," she said finally, and a look like joy or heartbreak crossed the doctor's face. "For you, Dad – of course – and for the schoolmaster John Selwyn – the first happy man to live in this house. May our boy be the latest in a long line of such good and happy men."

Dr. Blythe did not trust himself to speak. His wife's eyes were lodestars of morning, and she, too, was quiet. Little Rilla had pressed her lips together – Persis had clasped her hands – and even Kenneth remained mysteriously mum. So Susan decided to speak for them all.

"Well, Mrs. Dr. dear, and Rilla, dear. I am quite pleased with our baby, after all. He is not so red and wrinkled as I thought he would be, and his little brown skin reminds me of my own little brown-boy. There is something in his look that sets him apart from other babies, and that is a fact I will attest to. He seems very contented and seems to understand me when I am talking, by the way he opens and closes his eyes. When he was asleep, I saw that he buttons them up like Rilla used to do hers, and his fingers are the same as Rilla's – with the dimples at the base of each. He has a little red mouth that is an exact copy of your mother, Kenneth. I do not know if you have noticed, but I have been timing it by the clock, Mrs. Dr., dear, and little Gilbert John has not made so much as a peep for a quarter of an hour. I thought I should bring it up. A better baby I have never seen – not even including you, Rilla."

"What about me, Susan?" wondered Ken.

"Even better," said Susan, darkly, perhaps remembering all the spankings she had ever doled out to the child Kenneth.

The bells at the Methodist church began to rang out in the chill morning, reminding all who heard of the holiness of the day. Anne heard it and offered up a silent prayer – Susan heard it and was strangely moved – the doctor heard it while he studied the baby's face and wondered that something of his own was in it. Kenneth heard it and put his arm around his wife to hold her near. Rilla heard it and remembered the text of the angels on the first Christmas morning,

_"Fear not – I bring you tidings of great joy."_

"Oh, I know what 'great joy' is," Rilla whispered, with starry eyes and a heart filled with dreams that echoed down the ages.

The bells pealed on, so loud that they wakened Little Gilbert Ford from his slumber. He opened his buttoned eyes, surveyed the world around him, and gave a happy cry.


	24. Motherhood!

"Almost one month has passed since Gilly came," wrote Rilla in her trusty diary, stealing an hour of respite between putting the baby down and getting Kenneth's noon meal. "It seems such a short time – and forever – at once. It's _cold_ today – with icicles of massive size hanging from the eaves – but sunny and to me, inside my warm abode, that sun is all that matters. But how sorry I feel for all the poor field mice who haven't humble hearths like this one!

"I've got just about a quarter hour before Gilbert wakes – or Kenneth comes – and so I have determined to sit down and write a long and detailed account of all things that have happened in the past month – before either of the men in my life can disturb me. Mother says that she deeply regrets not keeping _very_ detailed records of our babyhoods, and has kept the gist of them while forgetting some of the finer points. I won't make that same mistake! Although I can't imagine forgetting anything about my dearwums – not the arch of his brows when he is smiling and cooing – not the rosy shade of his hair when the sun hits on it – not the exact _fraction_ of an inch that his lower lips sticks out when he is displeased!

"But Mother assures me from her perch of motherhood that one day these details will escape me and come only in flashes of nostalgia instead of when bidden. And so – I write.

"Gilly is a very good baby. He cries only when he is hungry or wet or when there is a diaper pin sticking him – that is what comes from letting Kenneth change him! When he was a day old, I sent Ken into the garret to fetch for me my Morgan – but there it has lain, untouched, on the night-table ever since. Was I ever such a goose to hold a child to as rigid as schedule as Morgan advises? Poor Jims! Perhaps he would have been better off at the asylum where they would have simply neglected him instead of fussing over him day in and out! I don't make Gilly wake by the clock – I test his bottles with my elbow, not a thermometer, and if he likes to be rocked in his cradle, in his cradle he shall be rocked! _And _I have been known to kiss him – yes, on the face – germs be 'darned!' As long as he is warm and happy and grows up well and good and contented – that is all a mother can hope for, even this particular one.

"We have settled into one routine – when dusk comes, I bundle Gil in an approximated seventeen blankets, with a warm water bottle tucked in for good measure and put myself into my own coat and hood and we go out to the frosty verandah to wait for Ken to come home. When he comes, we sit out a while longer – just until the stars come out. They look ever so much icier and near to us in the cold. But wasn't Susan scandalised to see us there!

"'To take such a tiny babe as that into the cold!' she said, with real horror, catching us there on the stoop one evening last week. She was dutifully bringing me some of mother's strawberry preserves – the last of them until summer, since she knows how I love them. Susan may be old-fashioned, but she is dear.

"'Feel his little cheeks, Susan.' I pressed her hand to his rosy red little face. "He is not so cold – if anything, he is overly warm."

"It was true enough. Still, Susan looked at me as if she thought she should call the authorities!

"I have visitors almost every day. Everyone who doesn't know my visitors tells me I should be offended beyond belief – but I'm not. For my guests treat _me_ as the guest and don't let me lift one finger to do a thing while they are there. Nan and Shirley argue over who is to bathe the baby – Mother sweeps while Susan feeds him – Father reads the paper and rocks the cradle with his foot and Una whisks my sewing from my hands and does it for me. Even Mary Vance has taken to bringing me goodies from the store so that I will not have to cook. And then Miss Cornelia brings me foodstuffs of her own because she doesn't trust "shop goods" – not even from her own girl's store! The nicest of all, however, is when Gertrude comes, bringing little Lois, and we put both babies in one cradle and forget about them for five minutes at a time – never more.

"_Or_ when Betty comes up from the Glen to bring me gossip. Apparently everyone wishes me well – even Amy, who has sent me a pair of hideous little bootees – everyone, _including_ Irene Howard! _She_ told Betty to tell me that she saw me at church last Sunday and is _sure _that my figure will come back in time. I boiled for a moment – it's true I'm plumper than I've been before – but then I remembered how desolate is the house of Howard, while the House of Ford simply bursts with joy. And forgave her, then and there. Besides, Kenneth says he likes me with "meat on my bones," a phrase that horrifies both Miss Cornelia and Susan, though each will not admit it to the other, and neither can say exactly why.

"Cousin Sophia has been the only blight on my happiness – thankfully she has only visited twice. Still, every time, after she leaves, I find myself fitful and worried and out of sorts. _Does_ Gilly look as feverish as she says? She always tells me he does – although, one time she said so and then five minutes later contradicted herself and told me he looked pale! Both worried me to no end. Cousin Sophia cannot be upset about the lack of 'Clementina' because Gilly is not a girl, but she was full of criticism just the same.

"'A lot of folks are saying you _might _have named the baby for Walter,' she said, sucking her teeth. "I know there's already James's boy, but there's been known to be more than one of a name in a family. There were four Benjamins in my family – and two of them were brothers. You might have used poor Walter's – since you pretended to be so devoted to him.'

"I cannot explain matters of the heart to prosaic Cousin Sophia, so it was no use telling her that it was _because_ I was so devoted to Walter that I could not use his name. The very sound of his name pierces my heart. If I had called my own dear boy for the brother I loved and lost, I would always be looking for the gray in his hazel eyes, for the dreaminess in his brow. When he wrote a poem it would be an elegy, to me, because another Walter wrote a poem, once. It is enough to remember him, and raise my boy according to the sentiments in his dear last letter. But once cannot convey such deep thoughts to a Cousin Sophia, and so I sent her on her way with a smile and nothing more.

"I like it much more when Nan comes. Jerry hates for her to walk so far, but she does it twice a week at least, despite his protest. Nan doesn't fuss over the baby, either – she is contented to sit peacefully for a long while and simply hold him. When she looks at Gilly, there is a dreamy look on her face that I know – well. I remember looking the same way before I had my boy – my dream I hoped for. Nan will have her baby soon – it is only a few months off. We have never been especially close, but this has drawn us closer together. When my boy has drifted off to the land of Nod, we talk for a while about our children and what we hope for them. And oh – everything we hope for them is _good_, good – please God, let them always be happy and good. That's all I ask, and it is a constant prayer."

Rilla laid her journal aside. Her words had set the tone and her head was filled with dreams of the future. She saw her boy-child in a year, toddling about and lisping words – she saw him at five, and felt the sorrow of sending him to school – she saw him as a lithe, capable teen – she saw him as a man, with a mysterious, veil-shrouded bride on his arm. When Kenneth came home for his noon meal, he found his wife weeping into her hanky.

"Oh – Kenn-e-e-th! How sad I am – how tragic it will be to see our son walk down the aisle – his face turned adoringly to his bride's – with no thought for the dear mama who loves him so! I hate his woman already – I shall always try to love her, but the pit of my heart won't be able to be anything but icy towards her – and it will surely break as I watch as she takes my dear baby aw-a-a-y!"

"Would you rather him be an old bachelor?" asked Kenneth with a grin. "Or unlucky in love?"

"Oh, no – I wouldn't wish it on him! How could you wish such a thing for our boy!" Rilla was indignant.

"You mothers," said Kenneth, taking one of Mary's trays from the icebox, "are the most darling, ridiculous bunch."


	25. To Have Loved and Lost

In March Nan had a little girl – a seven-months baby that was tinier than tiny and paler than snow. Opening her large, blue-veined eyelids seemed too great a task for that wee, white lady, but when she did open them her hazel eyes were bright and keen. She had a little rosebud mouth and hands that curled open like ferns. The hair on her head was a reddish-brown fuzz – her lashes and brows were dark as soot. In short, she was a very beautiful baby and Dr. Gilbert Blythe felt something in his heart break when he looked at her, for it was certain that this baby would not live.

"At least it is over," muttered Susan, taking the cotton-wool out of her ears and going to the stove, as she did in times like these.

It had been a long night for all of them – several times they had been alarmed – once they had talked of going to the hospital – but now the electric feeling had gone out of the air and something else had replaced it. A heavy feeling that sat right between the shoulder blades, Rilla thought, as she climbed the stairs to see the new arrival.

"We're calling her Elaine, for she is our Lily-Maid," said Nan, radiant but pale, her eyes aglow with the fire of motherhood. For as long as Nan lived, that light would shine out from her countenance. She was a mother – a mother! – but hadn't she always been a mother to this girl? She was so happy herself that she did not care that the rest of them were not gladder.

Or perhaps she was too weak. There had been whispered talk in the hallways of a hemorrhage. It seemed that the crisis was over now, but the air in the stifling room still felt heavy and dangerous. Nan was too weak to hold her arms up and she drooped, but she would not let Jerry or the nurse take the baby.

"I haven't finished pulling her to bits," she laughed. "She has your hands, Mother o'mine – and father's brow – and something of Rev. Meredith in her nose and cheeks. Isn't it sublime? Look Rilla – she even buttons her eyes like yours when she is sleeping! Oh, Jerry – it's splendid – it's the most wonderful thing."

Jerry, too, had eyes aglow with flame, but his were quite different from Nan's. His burned with a fire of worry and pain. Jerry knew that the baby would not survive.

For a long time after Walter had died Rilla had been afraid that nothing could ever touch her again – that no feeling, no matter how strong, could pierce her armor. Especially grief – for hadn't the worst already come to pass? Wasn't losing Walter as much grief as their there could be? Rilla thought back on that now and shivered – oh, if only that feeling could come back, that terrible, wonderful numbness of spirit! Anything – even _nothing_ – would be easier than this. It was awful to watch Nan coo and pet her little girl when they knew that she would sleep in a much colder cradle before the day was out.

"Won't somebody _tell_ her!" thought Rilla wildly – but then she noticed the little, bitter, resolute quirk at the corner of Nan's mouth and realized: Nan _knew_. Nan lifted her brown eyes and met Rilla's hazel and said,

"Oh – don't look at me so – all of you. I want to remember these as happy hours. There will be so much pain afterwards, you see. I want to commit everything about my girl to memory – come and help me count her lovely points, Rilla."

"There are too many of them," Rilla choked. If Nan could be brave, then she would, too, for her sake. "Everything about her is lovely, Nan."

They kept a day-long vigil. The tide turned a little past sunset – the little white Elaine closed her eyes – and did not open them again. The nurse went to take the baby, but Nan – Nan, who was trying so bravely to keep a smile pasted on her face – waved her away.

"Oh, don't take her from me – we have had so little time together and soon she will be gone from me for ever. Let me keep her a while longer, yet."

The nurse obliged and tactfully left the room. Rilla could not stand the sight of Jerry's face – or Nan's pale, stricken one – she excused herself. The doctor went to make another call. But Anne Blythe stood and kissed first the tear-stained face of her daughter and then the forever sleeping one of her daughter's daughter.

"'I am half sick of shadows,'" she said, and went out. Leaving Jerry and Nan alone together with their dead.

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Little Elaine Meredith was buried in the Methodist churchyard not far from the spot where another wee, white lady kept her undisturbed slumber. Nan was too ill to be there, and Rilla was glad. By the thermometer it was a mild day for January, but it felt colder.

"Ashes to ashes and dust to dust," said Rev. Meredith, a fine misting of tears on his noble face.

Rilla and Di packed up the homespun garments that had been wrought with so much love and care. They put away the cradle and basket in the garret and tucked the little blankets and bootees into trunks with camphor to keep the moths out.

Jerry spent many hours alone in his study with his Bible. There was a certain passage that he marked with an underscore: Call no man your father upon the earth, for one is your Father, which is in heaven. His recovery in spirit seemed tied to Nan's in body. As Nan passed out of the valley of the shadow, his grief passed, and lifted. As long as she was there, _he_ had something to live for. But,

"Poor Nan," Di remarked, as she smoothed her twin's brow. But Nan would have none of it.

"Don't call me _poor_, Diana," she implored. "I don't know why everyone comes around saying poor Nan! I'm richer than queens – I had twelve glorious hours of being a mother to my baby. To most people on earth she mattered not a whit – they did not even know of her existence. But _I_ knew her. I'm not sorry for those few hours – I'm grateful for them. I suppose I could rail against God for taking her from me," Nan's lips trembled. "I _have_ thought about it, you know. But I decided that I'd rather be thankful that He gave her to me at all."

In the long, grey twilight of a January evening, Anne Blythe found her daughter sitting on a window seat at the little manse lost in thought to the world.

"Oh, Mother!" she said, finally, coming around. "Forgive me – I've had the most wonderful daydream. Elaine would be two months old today, you know, and I was picturing her out. She would be chubby, now, with fat cheeks and dimples – her rosy fuzz would have turned to ringlets – she would be cooing and smiling. I _know_."

"I know you do," said mother to daughter. "We have never talked of Joyce – your sister – not really. It is thirty years ago that she was born – and died – but there isn't a day when I don't think of her – see her plainly before me – _know_ her. Captain Jim once told me that God would not let my baby be a stranger to me – and he was right, Nan. I spent only a few hours with Joy but I know her, as well as I know you. What a laughing, ruddy thing she would have been!

"For a long time," Anne went on, clasping her arms around her knees, "I thought that perhaps God was not good – that he had sent my baby to me and then taken her away as a kind of test for me – I thought losing little Joy had ruined love for me forever. But then I realized that it was quite the opposite, really. God gave me Joyce – and took her away– to _teach_ me about love – to teach me how to love whatever darling ones that came after her with my whole heart – and my whole soul – and to be thankful for them everyday. You will have another little girl, Nan – and you will love her that much more because of your loss. I know it – because I can't imagine loving _you_ more than I already do!"

"I will have another girl," said Nan, her eyes alight but full of tears. "But I will never forget my little Elaine, no matter if I have _twelve_ girls. And oh, Mother – if I _do_ have another little girl one day -- I'm going to name her _Joy_."

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I explained more about this chapter at the lmm fanfiction blog. Come visit us! It's lmmontgomeryfanfiction at blogspot dot com


	26. Una Speaks

"If I never have to say good-by to anyone ever again, I will live a happy life," said Rilla to herself, as she rummaged around in her wardrobe for her other silver slipper. Her tone was more cheerful than her words would make one think. Rilla had said so many good-bys in her life – some of them forever – that this one was not really altogether bad.

"Besides, you and Shirley will be home _every other weekend_," Rilla sternly reminded Una, who was lounging on the window seat.

There was to be a farewell dance for Una Meredith and Shirley Blythe at the old church hall that night. In the morning, the two would be on the 11 AM train to Redmond, in Kingsport. "Part of me wishes I was going with you," Rilla bemoaned, taking her dress in her arms and dropping onto the bed. "But only for that wonderful _new_ feeling – it would soon wear off and I'd wish I was home again."

"So would Kenneth," grinned Una, and she stretched languorously. It was amazing, Rilla thought, the change that had come over Una this winter. She still had melancholy spells, but she seemed rosier and happier and more confident in the times between them. "Can you imagine him trying to keep house without you?"

"I have imagined it," said Rilla gravely. "And I have made Kenneth promise that if anything happens to me on a Monday, he will ask for Susan's hand before Tuesday is out! I shudder to think of what would happen to Gilly if he were left solely in his father's care. A better-read, more well-loved child there would never be, but if anyone was to see behind his ears – ! I don't think Kenneth knows that children _have_ ears!"

Una laughed – she was doing that more, lately, too. "Where is Gilly, today?"

"With his Aunt Nan," said Rilla cautiously. "She is going to keep care of him tonight while we are at the dance."

"How hard that must be for her!" wondered Una.

"Yes," Rilla agreed. "But 'I won't hide in my shell,' said Nan. _She_ asked us if she and Jerry could have Gilbert for the night – I think it will help them if they can learn to be around him without thinking of Elaine. Besides, they have to get used to it – we're all procreating at an alarming rate. Mary Vance is expecting a new baby in June, and you've heard, of course, about Jem and Faith!"

Una's eyes were shining. "I hope it will be a little girl, this time," she said. "With your mother's hair and Faith's smile. I probably shall have to live vicariously through Faith, since it is almost certain I will never have any children of my own. Old maids can't, you know. Although, I _am_ bound to catch a husband at Redmond – Mrs. Alec Douglas gave me some pointers on how to catch him. I mustn't be so gloomy and I must '_try_ to be interesting.' That last part said with doubt that I could actually do it. Father's heaped my trunks with books I don't need and has drawn up a reading schedule for me. Miss Cornelia says I must get the Household Science people to teach me how to make proper biscuits – I smarted at that – but she also kissed my face and told me to have a bit of fun, so I promptly forgave her. Dear Miss Cornelia. Susan showed me how to tie a flannel round my throat to ward off damp – your mother told me to take a little time everyday for dreaming. So everyone has given me advice – have _you_ any words of warning for me, Rilla?"

Una's blue eyes were dancing and her curls bouncing around her cheeks. She looked so lovely that Rilla could not help saying,

"Only that Shirley is in love with you, Una – so you must be careful not to break his heart."

Una got silently to her feet and peered out of the window at the deepening twilight. Her back was to Rilla, but there was no quaver in her voice. "Very good advice," she said, lightly. "I will take it to heart. But I did not need it, you see, because I have known that Shirley loves me for some time. In fact, f you have any advice as to what I should do _about_ it – that would be welcomed, believe me."

"And you don't – ?" Rilla wondered. "Not even a bit, though? I've often thought – that perhaps there was _something_ – "

"There isn't – there isn't!" cried Una, suddenly passionate. "I love Shirley, of course, but _not in that way_ – and I never can – and you know why, Rilla, you _know_, but I will say it anyhow: it is Walter! _Walter!_ Oh, how many times have I longed to say his name and had to choke on it. I want to _scream_ it now."

"I thought that – perhaps – your feelings – had changed…"

"They haven't – and I wouldn't let them," Una turned cold in an instant. "I have put too much importance on them, you see. My life these past years has been defined by grief. I have set too much by that grief to exchange it for joy. And I shan't be a hypocrite. When Walter – died – I said I shouldn't love again. I made that vow to him – and myself. So I couldn't possibly let myself love Shirley – even if I _did_ want to!"

The last was flung defiantly at Rilla. The calm, languorous Una of moments before was gone, and a pale, violently trembling girl with mussed hair and skirts had taken her place. Tear seeped out of her eyes and she brushed them away furiously.

"I'm sorry," said Rilla, going to her. "I'm sorry, dear Una, I shouldn't have spoken." She smoothed the other girl's hair and straightened her rucked-up skirt. Una let her do it and wept like a child. "Please forgive me – I thought I would have learned by now to _think_ before I speak, but it appears I haven't."

"I'm – half glad you said it," said Una, shakily. "We have been thinking before we speak for so long that it's all we do anymore – think. And I know that you knew – you wouldn't have given me Walter's dear last letter if you hadn't _known_ – but it felt good to say it. I loved Walter. I'm glad I finally told you. But I shan't tell it to anyone else – and you'll go on keeping my secret, faithfully?"

"I will," Rilla promised.

"Thank you." Una dropped a kiss on Rilla's cheek and sat down at the window seat, tucking one leg under her. "And we won't talk of me – and Shirley – any more. I'll figure out some way to tell him that I don't 'reciprocate his feelings,' as the old Family Guide puts it. But, oh," and this part was said more to herself than to anyone else, "How lovely it would be if I _could_ love him – if I _could._"


	27. Rilla Reads the Paper

Rilla, done with her chores after supper, settled down on the wide front porch of the House of Dreams with a copy of the Glen _Notes_. Spring had come, in the time since we last saw our heroine, and Four Winds was abloom and abuzz. It never failed to amaze Rilla, that the world could be so beautiful in spring. There had been a time when she had hated that spring could come during the midst of such a dark time. But now that had passed, and Rilla could appreciate it again.

The tulips had been set out along the front walk, and nodded their waxy heads in a little rogue breeze that had come up from the sunset harbour. Apple trees in the yard were doing bloomy things overhead and the little garden that Rilla so lovingly set out was becoming a shadowy place of fragrance and delight. Gilly was in his cradle, sleeping soundly with a full belly, Kenneth was dozing in his study, _and_ the supper dishes were washed, so, Rilla reflected, all was really right with everything under heaven.

"What is going on in the world?" asked Susan, who had come up for supper and to sit a while. It was a rare treat for Susan to be away from Ingleside at that hallowed hour, but the doctor and his wife had gone to see a play in Charlottetown and to stay overnight with the Rev. and Mrs. Gordon, who were in town. With Shirley gone, that left Ingleside desolate. Susan had not grown accustomed to loneliness in her old age, and so she hied herself to the House of Dreams, where 'Little' Rilla was surely in need of company. Four Winds, thought Susan, who _had_ grown to like being in the thick of things down in the Glen, was _so_ out of the way.

"I am about to find out," Rilla said, smoothing the paper. A newspaperman's wife _must_ have respect for the paper and not wrinkle and crinkle it. Rilla was very careful not to. "Shall I read the world news first and then the Glen?"

Susan, who had been an expert on world events as well as the next man during wartime, had no use for them in times of peace. But Rilla was already exclaiming over the bold, black headlines.

"It seems there is a famine in Russia," she began, mournfully, and Susan interjected.

"I will not say that anyone deserves a famine, Rilla dear. Not even the Russians. But it takes gumption to run a farm, and we know that the Russians have none of that, since they left us in the lurch when we needed them to fight."

"I think the famine is caused by circumstances beyond their control, Susan," said Kenneth, coming out to stretch his legs on the wide sandstone steps. "I believe it's more of a drought than a question of gumption that is the problem."

Susan merely sniffed, as if to say that with enough gumption, the Russians could _make_ it rain.

"Rudolph Valentino is coming to a film premiere in Halifax," Rilla went on. "Oh, won't Betty want to go! She thinks Valentino is the handsomest man alive." There was another sniff from Susan at this. "Susan," Rilla teased. "Don't tell me that you think he isn't good-looking. Mother says even you admitted it after she took you to see _Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse._"

"He might be good looking," conceded Susan, "But I do not think that a good Christian man should make films about something so serious as a war – nor do I understand why anyone would want to go and see such a thing. Didn't we have enough of thinking about it while it was going on?"

Rilla felt that same melancholy chill that she always got when she thought about Walter – and all the other boys in khaki that had followed the Piper's call. She agreed with Susan there – she did not want to go and see a film that showed men dying – the blood and gore and fighting – she did not want to relive the pain and suffering of those years. "Sweden has abolished capital punishment," she informed the group on the porch, laughing so that the chill would pass.

"That is a very foolish thing," said Susan. "They will never keep their children from misbehaving."

"That's _corporal_ punishment, Susan!" laughed Kenneth.

"Here's a funny one!" Rilla dimpled. "A town in the States has passed a law saying that all the skirts on all the dresses must be at _least_ four inches below the knee! My, what a dowdy group those Yankee women will be!"

"I am not in the habit of agreeing with Yankees," Susan said primly, "But I believe that the mayor of that town has the sense God meant for him to have. Skirts are getting higher and higher it seems. _I _do not think most girls were proud enough of their legs to show so much of them, in my day."

"Canadian girls have the best legs around and they're only getting better," said Kenneth, quite evilly, laying his hand on Rilla's smooth white ankle. "Besides," he grinned, "How will the policemen in that town enforce that rule? I think it is quite indecorous for a man to go up to a woman and ask to measure her skirts."

"What is going on in the Glen news?" asked Susan desperately. She felt that she was getting to old to talk with the young people. She was so often shocked by what they said.

Rilla skimmed the pages. "Not much," she announced finally. "Only two tidbits that we'll find interesting – one being that 'Miss Una Meredith and Mr. Shirley Blythe were home from Redmond College on 3rd April to visit with family and friends,' and the other being that Mrs. Alec Douglas's old apple barn was caught on fire in that storm last week. I've hated that barn for years – it spoils the line of the view from the church, and so I am glad to hear of it – but Kenneth, why has the _Notes _gotten so dull lately? The rest of the news is just drivel."

"Asketh me not," Kenneth sighed. "Old Crawford's a good editor but stuck a little in the past. During the war we came so much to depend upon the paper for a good, reliable source of news. We crammed the pages filled with war news, war stories, war predictions and war possibilities. Now that it is over, it is harder and harder to find news to put in print – unless you know where to look."

"I can think of a dozen stories off the top of my head!" Rilla cried. "What about Abner Bell's amnesiac son getting his memory back? What about Miss Cornelia's finishing her 100th pathwork quilt! There is a company that is thinking of starting bi-plane rides out over the harbour and half the Glen is up in arms about it because of the noise of all the planes going over – and there's been talk of builing a theatre on Main Street and – "

"You don't have to convince me," said Kenneth, putting his finger to Rilla's lips. "Reta and I have already brought up each and every possibility with Crawford but he won't budge. 'No one wants to read about trifles,' he says."

"They aren't trifles! Not to me."

"Well, Crawford's thinking very seriously about selling the paper, anyhow," said Kenneth.

"Selling!" chorused Susan and Rilla togheter.

"Yes – letting the Lowbridge paper buy him out."

"Oh, no, Kenneth!" worried Rilla. "Why, the Lowbridge paper will be so concerned with Lowbridge goings-on there will be no room for Glen doings! Not to mention poor Four Winds! We'll have no attention paid us. We need our _own_ paper."

"I know." Kenneth got to his feet and stretched his legs. "If I had the money, I'd buy the paper from him and really turn it around. As it is, if he does sell I'll have to find work elsewhere. I should have left at the end of last year but to tell the truth, I love this little Glen paper. I always thought that I'd work in a big city, but after two years in Glen St. Mary, the thought of a big-city paper seems so cold and formal and impersonal. I've come to love writing about this town and its inhabitants and I'd hate to have to leave – well, I'm bushed. Think I'll turn in. Good night, Susan. Rilla, give us a kiss."

Rilla gave Kenneth a kiss very absent-mindedly. Her mind was far away.


	28. The Wind of Change

Miss Cornelia died that April – a beautiful April, a splendor of new green leaves and white, blossomy boughs. Mary Vance found her when she brought her little Nellie up for a visit one morning – she had been sitting in her old woven rocker on her prim front porch. She looked as though she had fallen asleep, and there was a shadow of her smile on her face.

Death might have come peacefully for dear Miss Cornelia, but it was a terrible blow for all those who loved her. Mary Vance was grim and watery-eyed, Marshall Elliott was inconsolable. And when Susan Baker of Ingleside heard the news, she sat straight down at the table and buried her head in her hands. She cried like no one had ever seen her cry, not even when Shirley had come home.

It took them all a while to adjust to her absence. Rilla missed her telephoning, and missed visiting her. She had been embroidering a cushion for Miss Cornelia's rocker – before – and put it away now. She could not bring herself to finish it.

Mrs. Dr. Blythe found herself halfway up the Shore Road on a visit to the little green farmhouse one day before she remembered that there was no one there. Miss Cornelia was gone from it forever, and Marshall Elliott had moved in with Mary and her family. The new young Methodist minister and his family were set to move in at the end of the month. Anne Blythe turned and had a melancholy walk back.

Susan, who had finally been forced into retirement by the doctor, who was worried about some pains she had been having round her heart, found herself as fretful and dissatisfied as a wraith. She had Mrs. Dr., dear, of course, and Shirley was home every weekend without fail. But without Miss Cornelia to argue with, Susan secretly thought, life lacked _tang_.

"I don't suppose they'll allow arguing in heaven," she said to herself, with a sigh. "But I suppose it will be nice, all the same."

Life went on. Kenneth's parents came to the House of Dreams to glory over their grandchild, whom they had not seen, and to welcome Carl to the family, for he and Persis had made it official and gotten engaged. It was good – _good_ – to see them, Rilla thought, only – only they had gotten older since the last time she had seen them. Uncle Owen had new lines around his eyes and his skin was papery – there was even evidence of age spots. And Aunt Leslie's "gorgeous snake" was more gray than copper now. Rilla hugged them tightly before she waved them off to the train station. She was being morbid – she knew it – but who knew how many more pleasant visits they had before them?

She did not have time to dwell upon it – they were expecting more guests. Some of Kenneth's army comrades came to stay for a week – a determinedly happy group of men, whose faces showed perhaps more than they would like, at times. They were glad to see the "Cap" and found his wife beyond charming.

"We always teased the Cap," said one, to Rilla, "For he wasn't interested in the French girls at all. We would have understood if we'd known what he had to come home to. But he never looked at another girl, Mrs. Ford – not once."

"I'm – glad," said Rilla, a little embarrassed at this revelation. "Come on, Gilly, up to bed!"

"Let him sit up with us a little longer, Mrs. Ford, if you have something else to do. It does our heart good to have a youngster around."

Rilla was glad to leave Gilbert in the hands of the young Private Smith. She still had supper dishes to clear. As she ran back and forth to the kitchen, she heard Kenneth discussing work with one of his friends.

"There are plenty of newspapers in Toronto, Ford!" said the man. "You should pack up your family and come and join us. A better place to live I've never found. You'd be happy there."

"We are very happy here," said Kenneth, laughing, but for a long time after he stared into the fire and Rilla, watching him, got gooseflesh all of a sudden.

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Betty found Rilla sitting pensively on the porch swing a week later, and happily joined her.

"I'm sorry to wake you up from your reverie," she said, "but I've news, and I wanted you to be the first to hear. I'm getting married – at the end of the month." She flaunted a diamonded hand with a smile.

Rilla was indeed snapped back into reality. "Betty!" she cried. "Who – what – I didn't know …"

"No one did, really," Betty dimpled. "It's happened so suddenly."

"But who…?"

Betty winked, and glowed. "You don't know him – his name is James Patterson – Amy McAllister's old beau. The one I danced with at her Christmas party? Don't waste any time feeling badly for Amy – she lost interest in him soon after. But I hadn't forgotten him! How glad I was to run into him at Myra Lockley's wedding last month. It was like a meeting of old friends – by nine o'clock that night I _considered_ him an old friend – by ten I loved him – by eleven o'clock that night we were as good as engaged. And now we're making it official."

"Oh, Betty!" Rilla threw her arm around her friend. "I am so _glad_ for you – forgive me for being incredulous. It's all so sudden!"

"I know." Here Betty sobered. "Mother would have liked more time to plan a big wedding – but James has been offered a position at his company's California office at the start of next month. So you see that we had to do it quickly."

"California." Rilla felt her lips go numb.

"California," Betty confirmed, with a small – though sad – smile.

"Oh," said Rilla, deflating.

Yes, change was in the wind – it could not be denied. Rilla realized with a sinking heart that Betty was one of her only good girl-friends left. Gertrude and Robert had moved closer to his people and Rilla saw her only once a month – at the most – now. Reta was around, but she had become more Kenneth's friend than Rilla's, after all their work together at the _Notes_. And now Betty was leaving. Rilla felt her lip begin to tremble – her eyes begin to fill.

"Don't!" Betty pleaded. "You're sure to set me off. I wouldn't leave this island for all the tea in India, you know, if it were for any other person. But I've got to go with James – my happiness depends upon it."

"Betty – dearest – I know. Only – you have always been such a good friend to me – I am sorry that our friendship cannot go on forever."

"What is a few miles between friends?" Betty asked with a smile, and she and Rilla sat and talked of the wedding details for a long while. There was a strange chill in the air as the breeze picked up around them and lifted their curls from their cheeks. For though the girls hugged and kissed each other at the gate, Rilla knew, as she watched Betty go, that within a year of such distance, the fire of their friendship would go out, and though they would always think well of each other, soon each would be relegated to a distant, pleasant memory in the other's mind.

"Oh, it is so cold," said Rilla, pulling her wrap around her. But it was not cool at all – the night was warm. It was the wind of change.

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This is a sad chapter – I promise a happier one later. Promise!


	29. Wherever You Go

Persis and Carl were married in June, in Toronto. Rilla and Ken left Gilly with the Blythes and Susan and hopped a train, boat, and another train to stand up with them in the great stone church on Eglington Avenue. Toronto was the biggest city Rilla had ever seen, and she might have had a chance to enjoy the hustle and bustle – _if_ there had not been _something_ in Kenneth's face that put her off of it. He was silent and pensive for much of the time they were there, and once he pointed at a house that was for sale as they walked to the theatre with Uncle Owen and Aunt Leslie.

"Look at that jewel of a house, Rilla," he said. "With a great, big front yard – you've always wanted a big yard."

Rilla felt insulted. The house _was_ darling, of course, but it was no where near as dear as their House of Dreams. "I hate big front yards!" she cried, and Uncle Owen and Aunt Leslie exchanged knowing looks behind her back.

On their last day in town, Kenneth left Rilla in the milliner's for a moment while he ducked into the nearby newspaper office. Rilla felt so sick to see him walk out of the building, whistling, that she could not buy the little, ruby-red velvet cloche that she had had her heart set on a minute before.

"He wants to take me away from the Island!" she thought furiously. "When he knows perfectly well that I'd _die_ if I had to live here! I'd hate it forever!" Then, with a sinking heart, Rilla realized that after a while she might come to love this place if she _had_ to live here – perhaps just as much as she loved Four Winds now. That thought hurt more, somehow, than simply thinking of being away from home.

"I wish – he would just _tell_ me – if he does want to go," she sighed, but Kenneth said nothing, and Rilla, feeling tired and peevish, stayed silent herself, even during the long trip back to the Glen.

The silence grew between them – frosty on Rilla's part and absent-minded on Kenneth's. Until one night, after supper – Kenneth smoothed the letter that he had been reading so that Rilla could see it, and spoke.

"Mother and Father are selling their house and moving to Montreal to be closer to Persis," he said with no preamble. "I think we'd better buy it, Rilla."

_We are going to talk about it now_, Rilla thought, her heart sinking, and wished that the silence could go on and on. Anything was better than having the truth set in front of her this way.

"Do – you – really want to leave here, Kenneth?" she asked in a small voice.

"No – no – of course not."

"One 'no' too many," said Rilla, feeling waspish.

"_But _we must face facts." Kenneth went on as if Rilla had not spoken. "There's no work here for me, Rilla."

"There must be something you can do!"

"Would you have me work in Miller Douglas's store – to be a shop-boy my whole life? To be a farmer?"

"No – no – Kenneth! Not when writing is your dream!"

"One 'no' too many yourself, this time," he said, with sympathy, and Rilla could not feel angry with him any longer.

"I just – never expected we would leave," she said, her voice still small, and weary. She spread her hands wide, as if to hold on to everything around her – to hold on to the little house, and life, she loved. "Mother said – it almost killed her – to have to leave this house."

"But she grew to love Ingleside even more," Kenneth said wisely. "My own mother loves Toronto as her home, now – though she 'wept buckets,' she says, when she left the Glen. And she's an Island girl like you, Rilla. But I can get work at the paper in Toronto – I heard from them yesterday. It's always been a home to me – like this Island is – and I think, in time, you could be happy there."

There was a question in his voice, and Rilla sighed.

"I could be happy wherever you are," she said. "Wherever you go, I go. Only – it does seem so sudden. And – and so sad, when I think of what we will miss. Jem and Faith are coming home soon – and Nan will have her baby next year – and all of our friends are here. And I wanted – for Gilly – to grow up as an Island boy…"

"We will come back to visit – whenever we can."

"I know," said Rilla querulously. "Oh, let me be for a while, Kenneth. Of course I'll go – I just need to digest it all now."

Kenneth wisely left her there, at the broad pine table that had always stood in the House of Dreams kitchen. Rilla laid her hands flat on the table and felt its warmth and smoothness.

"Wherever you go, I will go," Rilla repeated the words that had been her wedding vow and took a little heart from them. But then she sighed, "But oh – I didn't expect that we would go so far away!"


	30. Farewell to the House of Dreams

They broke the news to Ingleside, and everyone was very glum about it

They broke the news to Ingleside, and everyone was very glum about it. Mrs. Blythe cried outright, and the doctor hid his eyes, and Susan sniffed, "Toronto!" in much the same way that people speak about Hades.

"Fancy that blessed boy growing up in Toronto!" she worried. "He would get lost –

he would be kidnapped – he would wander out into the street – he could be trampled under an automobile …"

"Susan, _stop_!" Rilla cried, clutching Gilly to her chest, her heart pounding with the idea of these things. Oh, how foolish she had been to agree to go! And Susan was right – these things _could_ happen!

But when she told Kenneth later, he only smiled and chucked her under the chin.

"What a worried little mother hen you are!" he laughed, and Rilla's blood boiled. "Life in the city is no less dangerous than life anywhere else. Gilly won't be going anywhere on his own – he's barely walking – and when he is walking we will teach him to look before he crosses the street, et cetera, ad nauseum. Don't fret, darling."

Rilla resigned herself to it. They would go – they _were_ going.

She wept bitterly as she packed up all their things. With everything in boxes, you would never know that they had ever lived here. "And we never will live here again," Rilla whispered, and then flew out into the garden and sobbed.

Una found her there – a white-faced Una – looking as depressed in spirits as Rilla felt. "I cannot believe you are going," she whispered. "When Father wrote me the news I had Shirley bring me home right away. Oh, Rilla – you are my _best_ friend – you are my _only_ friend. What will I do without you?"

"You will have Faith – and Nan – and Rosemary – and Shirley," Rilla wept. "And I will be alone and friendless in a city, with nobody of my own except Ken and Gilly. No girlfriend to talk to – no one to laugh with – no friends at all!"

"You will _make_ friends," Una urged her and threw her arms around Rilla's shoulders. "And I'm going to visit you so often that you'll wish we'd never met!"

Rilla smiled in spite of herself. "There will always be the sparest of spare beds for you in our new house."

For she _had_ seen her new house, in a picture Kenneth had brought. Rilla had rather expected that it would be a grand, stone affair on one of the more fashionable avenues – this was a little charmless bungalow far away from the city center. Yard like a postage stamp – horrid 'plantation' shutters on all the windows, blocking the light – the parlour paper a hideous mishmash of olive-green and pink zinnias. The worst part was that they would be renting, and so she must _live_ with that horrid paper for as long as they stayed there. The landlord was apparently quite fond of it. Rilla had been disappointed when Ken showed her the pictures, and Ken had noticed, and was shamefaced about it.

"Of course we can't start out in a mansion," he told her – it was almost as though he were chiding her. "We'll have to live someplace humble for a while."

"I don't want a mansion, and I don't mind humble," Rilla told him. "But this – this is _ugly_, Kenneth!"

It was as though she had insulted him, instead of the house. His face became very closed off and he would not speak of it again.

The day of leaving grew near – nearer – and then it was there. Everything in the House of Dreams was boxed up, ready to be shipped, including Gilly's teething ring, which had somehow been packed away, and which meant he was red-faced and squalling as they loaded him into the car. Rilla could not blame him. He _looked_ like she _felt. _If only she had not been so silly to tell the others not to come and bid them good-bye. "It isn't goodbye," she had told Mother and Father and Nan and Susan and the Merediths – but it was, really, and now she wanted them. She walked through the quiet rooms one last time and noticed how sad it looked, with all the furniture blanketed and all the shades drawn. The clock on the mantel had stopped and in all the hurry and haste of packing nobody had thought to start it again. Rilla reached out to set it going and then drew her hand back. What did it matter, if they were not hear to see it?

Her eyes clouded with tears, and she thought of all that had happened to her in this beautiful, hallowed place: her first night as a bride, as a mother, nights spent by the fire with Betty, in the garden with Una, laughing with Gertrude, each of them with a soft, fragrant bundle on their lap. She thought further back – saw the ghost of Captain Jim rocking by the hearth, saw Leslie Moore of the days of old and the red, red roses for love held in Owen Ford's hands. Saw wee white Joy – her sister – who had passed her first and only day within these walls. Saw her mother and father – young – her age, holding hands, the brown eyes looking deep into the gray-green ones.

She saw herself and Kenneth here, as they had been and she saw themselves as she had wanted them to be – old and in love and _here_.

"Goodbye," whispered Rilla to her ghosts.

In the driveway Ken beeped the horn, startling her out of her thoughts. "Rilla!" he cried. "Come on! Time and tide, and all that!"

How he could laugh at a time like this she did not know.

+She went out, closing and locking the door behind her. Kenneth was waiting for her with a smile. The lighthouse star was gleaming northward in the pearly morning light. The little garden, where only marigolds still bloomed, was already hooding itself in the violet shadows of dawn.

She knew it was foolish, but Rilla could not stop herself from kneeling down and kissing the worn old step which she had crossed as a bride.

"Good-bye, dear little house of dreams," she said.

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A/N: This isn't the end! And the last few lines, from the '+' to the end of the chapter, are borrowed or paraphrased from LMM's _Anne's House of Dreams. _


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